The Messenger's War
by Study in Silence
Summary: The book has been translated, but is it too late to save the D'Yer Wall? And has Mornhavon already returned? Eventually KariganxZachary. Constructive critisism more than welcome.
1. Book & Burning Brooch

_**The Messenger's War – Chapter One**_

(_Green Rider—property of the inimitable Kristen Britain. I am making no profit off of this work._)

_&_

"Go away!" Karigan G'ladheon growled sleepily, wrapping her pillow around her head. She had been curled in her warm, peaceful bed, in the middle of a now rapidly-fading dream, when she had been abruptly shaken awake.

"Up, Karigan," came the Captain's equally agitated voice. "There's a message that needs to go to the Wall."

She peered up at her with bleary eyes.

Captain Mapstone, with only her nightgown, a robe, and a lantern in hand and snowflakes still dusting her loose, slightly unruly hair, looked to have had a similarly rude wake-up call. She also had a pair of saddlebags and a message satchel thrown over her shoulder. It would be logical to think that the message was urgent. She lamented—briefly—that she had to go riding through the countryside in midwinter at gods knew what hour of night.

"Yes Captain," she said resignedly, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She pushed the bedclothes aside and swung her legs over the side to get up. The cold immediately hit her, shocking the cobwebs of sleep from her mind. She shivered, stretched, and reached for her uniform, which was laid out over a chair for easy retrieval.

The Captain studied her for a brief moment as if making sure she would really get out of bed, then turned and stepped out of the chamber. She was too cold to be irritated by Mapstone's doubt. It was unfortunate for anyone who lived here that the castle was so difficult to heat because—as Alton had once reminded her one winter before he mysteriously decided he hated her—it was not an option to put a fireplace every ten feet or so in a large building.

Her teeth chattered miserably as she dressed and buckled on her swordbelt, and finally—thankfully—put on her fur-lined greatcoat. Pulling on her warm winter gauntlets, she joined her Captain out in the corridor.

The Captain was drumming her foot on the floor and had set her lantern down. For some odd reason Karigan had almost expected her to be barefoot, but she had on her riding boots. She handed over the saddlebags and satchel. Once Karigan had taken them the Captain rubbed her hands together, as if to regain circulation, and took up the lantern.

"Condor is saddled," she said, sotto voiced. As they left Rider wing and with it the possibility of waking someone, she explained further in the same hushed whisper, as if very conscious of the possibility of eavesdroppers. "I was told a short while ago that Agemon has finished his translation."

_The book! _Karigan thought in surprise, feeling the weight of her message satchel—and realizing the urgency of her mission. "So this is…"

The Captain spared her a tight smile. "We can only hope that it will be of use, and that this is not all in vain."

---

Inside the Rider Stables, Condor was tacked up, standing on the cross-ties in the barn aisle with his ears and eyelids drooping drowsily and one back hoof cocked. A halter had been put on over the bridle. He perked up and whickered softly as he heard her soft footfalls on the packed dirt.

She slapped his warm neck, slung the satchel over her shoulder and threw the saddlebags across the back of the saddle, than fastened them on securely. She cinched up the girth and took off the halter.

As she led him out into the icy black night, feet sinking into ankle-deep snow, Captain Mapstone put a hand on her shoulder. "Be careful and always keep your eyes open. It's always possible that someone else knows."

Karigan nodded, though it almost went without saying, and drew up her hood. Holding the reins with one hand, she stretched to put her foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle.

_&_

Laren Mapstone, breath fogging before her, watched the messenger horse and Rider Knight cross the castle grounds at a fast canter, silhouetted against the night.

She had seen the many letters—written, crumpled, scrapped, and written. She knew what Zachary was trying to do. He was preparing to petition the Lords to allow him to end his engagement without too much fuss. She was afraid… terrified that he was wrong, of what would happen if he was. Sending Karigan away might give her the opportunity to talk some sense into him.

_What a horrible night._ The wind whipped around her and under her robe, freezing her where it met bare skin. Her boots were pulled on without stockings and dampness made the seams abrade her. Snowflakes eddied and whirled before her eyes, and cold seeped through her inadequate clothing and into her flesh, into her bones. She didn't want to think about how her joints would feel, come morning.

It went against a lifetime of principles and loyalties to undermine Zachary, but she consoled her conscience that though she was sorry to send Karigan or any other out now there was no other she would have trusted the vital document to.

Her fingers which, like her cheeks and ears, stung from the cold, curled and uncurled around her brooch. Suddenly it flared with livid heat under her hand, leaving her cursing and blowing on her burned fingertips. A second time it glowed with heat and this time it seared through the fabric of her robe and fell soundlessly into the snow.

She nearly screamed at the pain and choked on the effort to hold it back.

What had just happened? She gasped erratically as she stared down her brooch with wild eyes. The lower half of the little horse and the wingtips were submerged in the snow, while the horse's eye peered up at her with an accusing, almost lifelike light. Her ribs ground with pain as she breathed. Her limbs shook and her teeth chattered. Her muscles spasmed painfully, threatening to send her toppling into the ground. She reached down with her unburned hand to pick it up. It took two tries for her fingers to close around it.

_Have I just been abandoned?_ She wondered, looking down at the coldly shimmering gold in the palm of her quaking hand. Something approaching blind panic gripped her pounding heart. The Green Riders were all she had now… truly, all she'd ever had, but for Melry….

_False_, the familiar, neutral voice rang through her mind, seemingly responding on its own. The spasming eased, her heart rate slowed, and with it the pain abated to a manageable level.

She blinked. Stunned and horrified at what had just happened, she didn't know what to think. The most logical conclusions she could come up with were anything but.

_&_

_Please tell me if you think it's worth reading, or if I should even continue. This is a pretty ambitious idea, as you will hopefully see. I had hoped to get a lot more written than I currently have stowed away, but in the past I've never made it past chapter three of anything, and I hoped having someone screaming in my ear might encourage me not to give up and scrap it in exchange for a new idea._


	2. Blizzard

**_The Messenger's War - __Chapter Two_**

_&_

_Thanks to everyone for reviewing. __Here's Chapter Two, in all it's length._

_&_

Inside her quarters early the next morning, Laren gingerly pinned her brooch on in a slightly different spot then she usually did. It had seared a puckered, oozing, red shadow of the messenger service's insignia onto her skin. The burns to her fingertips were only slightly tender, but the mark on her chest made her wince each time her uniform grazed it. So she had put a bandage over it, which did help slightly.

Her hand slipped as she clasped it and the heel of her palm grazed the edge of the burn. She inhaled sharply through clenched teeth. It only helped, after all, a little bit.

_False, it said…_ if the brooch had not abandoned her, why had it burned her?

She shook her head and turned to an arrow slit, peering out. She bit down hard on her lip; she could only see a wall of white, and the only thing to be heard was the howl of the wind. She drew back, hoping that Karigan would make it through the storm alright.

_&_

King Zachary held a candle to melt heather wax off a much-used stick. He watched as _one, two, three, four_ drops fell into a glob on the parchment before he set the candle and stick of wax aside. He pressed his clan seal-ring into the wax, raising it to reveal a perfectly formed, embossed terrier. With satisfaction, he placed the letter on a stack.

.

Estora had come to him in his study nearly two days ago, nervous and unsure in a way he had never seen in her before. She had asked him, very carefully, what she meant to him and what the marriage would mean to him. It had surprised him that she would ask, but his pre-prepared answer had seemed to almost reassure her—not the words, for they weren't the ones she wanted to hear, but rather their subtly staged quality.

She had asked more firmly if he even wanted the marriage, or if it was just a political necessity. Vaguely suspicious as to where she might be heading and as gently as he could, he had told her that it was a matter of politics; his country needed the security of a Queen and an heir to the crown. She asked then if someone else would do.

To this he'd raised his eyebrows.

Did she understand the pressure her father was putting on him? He doubted it.

His thoughts had gone to Karigan. She had not responded to his notes, Captain Mapstone had said that she did not want to see him. As much as he desired—scratch that, as much as he _needed _to see her, if she wanted to be left alone, he wanted to respect her wishes. He owed her that much and more. He loved her, mind, body and soul. More then any mortal could comprehend and more then he could stand as long as he was away from her. Perhaps he had seen similar feelings in her, but she had never said so. How could she? He wanted to know, needed to be sure, but it would make things worse if he did. He would never be able to take vows with Estora if he knew rather than just suspected that Karigan felt the way he did.

It would be just too much.

Zachary had unconsciously drummed his fingers on the top of his desk, staring off into space. Estora had waited, buzzing with discomfort as she waited for an answer. She wasn't really all that good at hiding her emotions.

He shifted and looked at her directly. "There is no other choice," he'd said bluntly, deciding that she could handle the truth. "I marry you, or risk losing the eastern provinces altogether. If Sacoridia does not stand as a single nation, we have little hope of prevailing upon the return of Mornhavon the Black." He wasn't too fond of saying the words himself though. It made the whole situation seem so much more damn final.

Estora stared back at him unblinkingly, swallowed, and said in a small voice, "I see…." She raised her chin and straightened. Her voice was a bit stronger and she reverted to a more formal manner. "Is that all, then? Sire, if you had the support of the other Governors… Bairdly and Arey particularly, I do not think my father would be able to hold us to the contract."

She was right… essentially. He couldn't say he hadn't thought of it before, but he hadn't believed breaking the contract at all to be a viable option. But perhaps if Estora wanted out half as much as he did… he could change his mind about that. Still, he was curious. "You did not oppose any of this at first. What changed your mind?"

The noblewoman averted her blue-green eyes. "I no longer wish to be like a piece from a game of Intrigue, Sire. I've been a pawn all my life, but this will seal my fate. I don't think I really want to be Queen." He looked at her inquiringly, pleased to have gotten a fairly straightforward answer but sure that this was not the whole story. She caught his gaze and her alabaster cheeks had bloomed with color.

As she began to answer, he'd chuckled and raised a hand. "I think I understand." He had barely noticed the shocked look that had crossed her face. Whether she was surprised that he had been so easy to convince, or at something else, he did not know and hadn't lingered on it. Zachary sobered. "It is worth trying, but I will need you to cooperate with me in the process. I do not think that one person alone can convince your father to let go."

She had been all but gaping at him, an odd, almost gleeful look in her eyes. She blinked and nodded. "Of course, Sire."

"Good. We'll speak later," he'd said briskly. She had taken this as a dismissal, which it was, and left.

.

Zachary blew out the candle. They had indeed spoken later that day, and the plans had begun to come together in more detail.

Someone rapped thrice on the door, and his attention snapped across the room. "Come," he called. The door swung open to reveal a wind-blown Captain Mapstone, white sprinkled across the surface of her green longcoat. He thought she looked like she was on her guard and bracing for trouble. It put him on edge. "Good morning, Laren," he said though he knew that it really wasn't. The weather was abominable.

Laren came into the room and sat down opposite him, slightly rigid in her chair. "One of the tomb Weapons came by my quarters around midnight with the translation of the book. I sent it to the Wall with Karigan a little later."

He stared at her. He was glad beyond words to hear that the book had been translated, but… he felt a muscle spasm in his cheek. "You sent Karigan out in this weather?"

"I am sorry; I'm worried about her… it wasn't so bad when she left; I didn't know it would get this bad." Her mouth tightened into a thin line. "Zachary… I need to talk to you."

_&_

Karigan had some warm memories of winter storms. Memories of sitting warm in front of the hearth with her aunts, her father and Sevano, listening to them reminisce about other such nights, either before she was born or when she was too young to remember, while the wind howled outside.

There was nothing warm about where she was today. No fire to warm her, no stories to lull her into a peaceful daze, no roof above her.

The blustery snowfall of the last day and night had matured into a dangerous nor'easter. Condor pinned his ears back to keep out wind and ice crystals, his head low enough to trawl the snow.

Even as large as he was, the gelding was wading in the snow. Karigan could not see more than a few feet in front of them, even holding up a gauntlet-covered hand to shield her eyes. Snow mixed with hail and rain, and to make matters worse they were off the road and couldn't find it again. The world had faded into shades of white and gray.

Karigan shut her eyes so she could use her right hand to tighten her scarf about her neck. It was no use looking; they were completely lost, just one day out of Sacor City. She could only go the direction she guessed was right. The howl of the wind cut off any sounds. _Bloody hells,_ she thought as her hood was whipped back. She grabbed it, but not before the icy wind stung parts of her face that it had protected. She cursed out loud but the words were carried from her lips.

She knew she had to find shelter, and quickly. She had no desire to freeze to death; and certainly not with what weighed down her message satchel. She thought she would have to give the Captain a piece of her mind when she returned to the city.

---

It was only a moment later when something big and dark loomed out of the white. She squinted at it and veered her horse out of the way of it. Then, she suddenly realized what she was looking at. She guided Condor to the lee side of it and grinned in triumph as the wind cut. The gelding gathered himself and raised his head; he let out a shrill whinny, a stream of vapor shooting out of his flared nostrils. Yes, he knew where they were too.

The big boulder—big enough to shelter a horse and rider from the wind—was a well-known land mark known as Glaston Rock. Though they were off the Kingway, they weren't as lost as she had thought they were.

They paused there for a while to catch their breaths. She knew it was only a short ride from where they stood to Glaston Waystation. It had been built before the most recent expansion of Sacor City in one of the early Hillanders' reigns, so it had been more useful then. Now it was very seldom used, but still kept stocked with gear in case someone got in a situation like the one she was in now.

Assured that a respite was within reach she rode Condor out of the tiny sheltered place and back into the storm. Now, though, she knew which way to go.

The boulder vanished behind her. Karigan rode between closely-spaced bare-limbed trees that formed a narrow lane. Condor stumbled on something hidden beneath the surface but quickly recovered his balance. _Path probably hasn't been used in a while,_ she thought, and licked her chapped lips. Karigan ducked beneath low-hanging branches, though every so often one scraped against her shoulder or the side of her head as it was flung back and forth by the high winds.

On sharp branch scored down the leather of her satchel and lashed Condor's rump. He jumped and sidestepped, flinging his head up so he hit the bit. In the process he knocked her leg into the flaky bark of one of the tree trunks and her head into a bough. She gasped a curse, head thumping, than touched the reins and wiggled the bit in his tense mouth while squeezing his sides to go forward. "_Easy_…"

The gelding dropped his nose and settled, glancing back at her sheepishly.

She rubbed the back of her head where she'd been hit as she inspected his hindquarters. The branch had scraped some hair off leaving a black line, but it didn't seem to have broken the skin. Glad for small mercies, she straightened in the saddle.

Karigan glanced around through slitted eyes at the whiteout-gripped woodland, and of course there was little to see but vague, wind-lashed shapes. _Someone might have heard, _she thought in echo of Mapstone's words last night. This was hardly ideal weather for an ambush; anyone would have to be knee-deep in snow, which would slow an attacker down not to mention make them miserable, and one couldn't see to aim a crossbow. Unless they were already very close, in which case they would have little trouble.

She shook her head sharply, dislodging a crown of snow that had settled on her hood. If they were close enough to see her clearly she would be able to see them.

A thin smile quirked the corners of her mouth upward, relief chasing away dark thoughts. The cluttered path opened up into a clearing, containing dimly visible structures built close together. As she passed between the ward stones, it didn't occur to her to worry over the fact that she felt _nothing_. No prickle of energy, not even the slightest change in the atmosphere.

They quickly reached the smaller of those structures, a lean-to stable. She dismounted, boots sinking deep into the snow, and led him inside quickly. The pine wood structure was small and a bit drafty, but infinitely better than being outside.

Her teeth chattered as she took off his bridle and dug through the saddlebags, taking out a rag, brushes, and a hoof pick. He stood by watching patiently. She removed the saddle and blanket. Steam rose from the area the saddle had covered, and she rushed to rub the sweat dry so it wouldn't chill him then worked down his legs, meticulously drying them and checking for signs of lameness, finally checking his feet for stones. All seemed well.

There were sacks of grain in a corner cupboard—not the freshest, but not rotten or mouse-infested either. As she was scooping barley into a bucket, she noticed a corner of wool sticking out from under one of the sacks. She yanked it out, and it opened into a medium-weight, slightly moth-eaten blanket. Glancing at Condor, she decided it would serve to keep him from freezing tonight. She shook it out, than draped it across his back. He nuzzled her shoulder in thanks and she stroked the cold, whiskery nose with a slight smile.

.

Though she dreaded having to going out into the storm again she steeled herself and stepped out with her saddlebags slung over her shoulder, thinking of a warm fire and a hot meal rather than the cold that surrounded her. Wishing desperately for snowshoes, she waded around the side of the little stable, keeping the wall close so she wouldn't lose her way. She stumbled every couple steps.

White closed in tighter, the sharp, cold air burning her lungs. She shielded her face against the burst in the storm, her back hitting the wood. The snow whirled around her, forcing its way between layers of clothing before leaving her to stagger up to the door of the waystation cabin, wet and freezing.

The door looked like it had been put on backwards, but she was thankful for it; with the thick layer of snow, she didn't think it would have opened any way but inwards. Maybe it hadn't been an accident after all. Cold and tired as she was, she was glad beyond words of the fact that it looked as if no wild creatures had decided to break in, and there were logs stacked beside the fireplace.

Jerking off her gauntlets and dumping her saddlebags on the bunk, she wasted no time in opening up the chimney flue and setting the fire. Flint in one hand and steel in the other, she lent down to blow gently on the spark they'd made. It caught, and gradually grew into a flickering flame. She rubbed her hands together in front of it as she waited for the room to heat up.

Realizing that she was just getting more chilled from sitting still in her wet uniform, she stood up and dug some dry clothes out of her saddlebags. She stripped off the uniform she was wearing and put on the dry one as quickly as she could. She felt heat on her back; when she looked over her shoulder at the fireplace the blaze was already beginning to swallow the logs she'd stacked on the grate. Karigan sighed and smiled to herself at the sight of the homey blaze, the inward chill melting along with the outward one.

She grabbed a broom that was leaning against the wall and setting about cleaning up the cabin.

---

Sometime later, after she'd prepared herself a basic, warm meal and added more logs to the fire, Karigan dozed off in a chair in her stocking feet and fell into impossible, happy dreams of walking in the snow laughing, at King Zachary's side with his arm looped around her waist. Funny… the last couple weeks she'd been so busy she hadn't had much time to think about him. Except, that is, when she saw him.

_&_

_How'd that sound? Not a whole lot happened, but I'm still setting the stage._


	3. Conflicts

**_The Messenger's War - __Chapter Three_**

_&_

_Well, no Karigan in this chapter I'm afraid. I'll be out of town without a computer for a couple days, so I had to stop where I did to get it out in time. _

_All right, here's Chapter Three. If I can finish the next chapter without running out of ideas, I think we'll be out of the danger zone._

_&_

"About what?" Zachary asked Laren.

She met his gaze evenly and sternly. "About Karigan. I know what you are doing—" she paused and took a breath. "As long as you do what's right for Sacoridia by marrying Estora, I don't much care what you do. But if you end the engagement, Gods only know what trouble Lord Coutre would stir up.

"Love is all well and good, Zachary, but Sacoridia must always come first. You should know that, and I believe you do. All this is foolhardy; you risk hurting Karigan, and more importantly, starting a civil war."

Zachary stood slowly, his eyes narrowing and hardening, and she caught an almost-hidden look of calculation. His expression darkened before turning inscrutable. He leaned far across the top of the large desk so his face was mere inches from hers, voice low. "Why do you assume that Karigan is involved?"

"I didn't," she said sharply, fighting the urge to turn her face aside.

"She didn't have anything to do with this. It was Estora who came to me, did not want to get married. I was prepared to go through with this, but Estora decided she was not… though I was only too happy to have an out. I have not spoken to Karigan, and she did not—" his voice dropped nearly to a growl, eyes lit with cold fury. He no longer hid just how enraged he was. There was more though: disappointment, hurt. "But that was you, wasn't it?"

So he had figured it out.

"I—" She groped for words knowing all too well what he meant, but came up with none. Her brooch throbbed in unison with the rapid beat of her heart and her hands started to shake spasmodically. She shoved them in her pockets and clenched her jaw, suddenly terrified that the brooch would burn her again.

To him, her lack of answer was as good of an affirmative as if she had spoken out loud. "I have known you nearly all my life; I have trusted you completely, thought of you as my closest friend! Now, you betray me… like so many others." As he spoke he walked around the desk, body tensed like a coiled spring. Those last words fell with the finality of an executioner's axe, and they chilled her.

Laren rose from the chair, her fists tightening in her pockets. "I was trying to protect my country."

"How, Laren? With subterfuge and lies? This is not your responsibility," he growled.

"Zachary... damn it! Do you think you'd have listened to me?! Either of you? I wouldn't have done it if I thought you would!"

He stared at her with those cold eyes. "It should not have been your concern anyway." The brooch warmed, almost warningly.

"No?" she said challengingly. "Would you have me lose one of my most able Riders to pregnancy or worse because the two of you couldn't restrain your lust? Karigan is one of my Riders—I am responsible for her!" Mistake. She knew it. She clamped her mouth shut again and watched in dismay as his fury built to new heights.

"I will not listen to you slander her—or me. Do you claim to know either of us, Captain? As for your being responsible for her—you sent her out into a _blizzard_. Does that strike you as responsible?!" He was afraid for Karigan, she knew—more than afraid—and it would not help their situation. At least he had enough control to use her angry blunder as an ace.

Laren swallowed, breathing heavily. "_I didn't know…_"

Zachary turned away on his heel, seemingly to examine whatever he had been doing before she entered. But as he did turn, he threw the words over his shoulder. "What changed you, Laren?" Stunned, she stared at his back. Silence stretched between them. Finally he said, "Dismissed, Captain. For now we are finished."

It took her a long moment to get her legs working, but when she did she left the study and closed the door behind her. She kept walking for the benefit of her dignity, but as soon as she turned out a corner and into an empty place she leant against the stone wall, feeling like her legs would buckle beneath her. Sweat dripped down her face; her head ached and the burn on her chest stung indescribably.

What the hell had she done? He was not her young 'moonling' anymore. As if she had not known that. Now it seemed that she had destroyed the trust that remained from that time. As for that final question, thrown down like one last card… _What changed you?_ She wasn't sure she understood. She hadn't changed so much. Surely it was meant to unsettle her. She swallowed, feeling a little feverish.

_&_

In the study, Zachary sat with his head in his hands. He wasn't sure he'd ever been so disappointed and so hurt by any past betrayal. He didn't want to believe she had done it but he knew it to be true. And how it changed things.

In hindsight, he knew he had seen it happening. Wherever she could she had carefully put him—and probably Karigan—in situations where their timetables wouldn't overlap. She had steered him away from her, provided a distraction… as she had after the Knighting ceremony. Laren had taken his notes to who-knows-where, probably destroying them. She had probably guided Estora into laying her past on the table too, for she knew that honesty would please him, and now sent Karigan away while he and Estora worked on the contract, probably hoping to do some damage control.

Some reason or other, this morning she had slipped up.

He let out a breath slowly. Why had she not trusted him to do the right thing? He had been prepared to go through with it; it was only now that the plans had changed. He didn't wish what he had been poised to do to Karigan and himself upon Estora and whomever she was seeing. He wanted the best for that gentle Lady as well as for his kingdom and he suspected that the throne was not the best for her in any case. _And she would not make a very good wartime queen,_ he added mentally, and not without a trace of smugness.

It had been a good many years ago that he had noticed the change in Laren—a slight change that he had nearly forgotten, but this brought it back. Somehow she had seemed more hardened, more closed off. It had been near that time that she had been promoted to Rider Lieutenant. It had seemed sort of… the way most officers behaved—and he had been younger and wrapped up in other things. In the context of years, it hadn't really seemed very significant. But now he had to wonder.

There _was _good that came out of this situation, he mused. Perhaps Karigan might be willing to see him when she returned. If the dangerous gamble of breaking the contract should prove fruitful, perhaps… perhaps then she would be willing to come to him and to be with him—to become his Queen if she wanted it that way.

Zachary knew better than anyone what you gave up when you donned a crown. He wasn't sure his love would be willing to let go of most of her freedom and much of her privacy for anything.

The Lords were bound to be a problem even if she was. They were unlikely to suddenly decide that it was perfectly alright for commoners to marry Kings.

_Karigan_… he shifted in his seat. He always worried about her. Zachary stared back at one of the tapestry-covered walls knowing what lay beyond secure stone walls. Was she out in the storm right now? He desperately hoped she had found shelter somewhere. Shutting his eyes, he rubbed his temples with thumb and forefinger. He wanted her back safe, and soon. When she came back, he knew he wouldn't want to let her go again. Something about her still carried that same otherworldly quality that he had seen in her months ago. His was certain that it wasn't good, and he didn't feel that it was likely to go away. Thinking about it didn't ease his mind.

He shook off his reverie and stood. There was the problem of what to do with Captain Mapstone. His eyes flickered to the letters he had recently penned.

An irony, to be sure. He pulled the top one off the stack—to Lord Governor Wayman. He cocked a wry smile. Laren had been locked up in the castle too long. Perhaps a long errand would do her good. Whenever the blizzard ended, he decided, she would be on the road to Wayman Province.

_&_

Elsewhere in the castle and blissfully unaware of the conflict between King and Rider Captain, Lady Estora Coutre sat with her embroidery in her lap.

Her eyes drifted aimlessly over the pattern of three leafy, long-stemmed white roses in full bloom, her hands deftly stabbing a needle threaded with silken green-gray through the finely woven fabric. Though the casual observer might think her attention was on it, her mind moved in altogether different places.

.

She had been one of the few to note the return of Xandis Amberhill some weeks ago, or so it had seemed. They had caught each other's eye across one of the halls in the east wing. He had looked tired to her, tired and grieving—though he kept his roguish charm, and his clothing had appeared newer.

She had gone across to him. He had retreated slightly as he realized that she was coming his way, but quickly recovered himself and bowed to her with a flourish. "Good day, my Lady."

She saw the flash of a ruby on his finger. It appeared that his fortunes had improved since she'd seen him last. "Lord Amberhill," she said with a smile. "May I speak with you privately?"

"Of course, my Lady. It would be a pleasure," he said smoothly. His eyes had up with something she couldn't identify.

.

"I wanted to thank you for your efforts to rescue me," she told him as she closed the door to her outer chamber. "There is a medal meant for you in my father's coffers. It is Coutre Province's highest order."

"So I've heard." She raised an eyebrow at how morose he sounded.

"Do you not want that honor?"

"I… do not."

More than a little surprised, she asked him why.

He passed a hand through his black hair, nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply. "I do not wish to be _honored_. In going after you, I was merely trying to undo what I had done." His mouth bent into a wry smirk. "And of course, rescue a lovely woman. Though someone beat me to that."

She had to smile at that, but it didn't diminish her curiosity toward at his first comment. "What do you mean?"

"The Green Rider—G'ladheon, wasn't it?"

She pursed her lips. "You were trying to undo what you did? What _did_ you do?"

Lord Amberhill opened his mouth but there was a loud knock, followed by a click and a creak as the door swung open behind them. She turned to look.

Lord Governor Coutre cleared his throat as he entered. He raised his eyebrows. "Lord Amberhill. I was unaware that you had returned to Sacor City."

The younger Lord bowed, looking relieved at the interruption. "I had business in Hillander that now is concluded."

"Hmm, yes." Lord Coutre glanced between Estora and Amberhill. Amberhill seemed to take the hint. He kissed Estora's hand lightly and bowed again to her father.

"Good day, my Lady," his voice had been almost imperceptibly softer, and he added, almost as an afterthought and back to a more confident tone, "and Lord Governor." With that he turned and left the room.

Estora's father looked after him, and then eyed her. "What were you doing in here?"

Slightly annoyed that he might be suspicious, she said, "I wanted to thank him, though he said he didn't… he didn't want to be given unto the Order of the Cormorant."

His brow furrowed in confusion. "How could he not?

"I don't know." She had gotten the impression that it was not necessarily a good idea to disclose even what little she had learned.

.

She smiled in memory. She had met Xandis again, and more then once. Some of those meetings had been chance… but not all. Now she saw him nearly every day.

Those feelings that had begun to surface were not entirely unfamiliar. She never thought that she might fall in love again, but now it seemed that that was exactly what was happening. She still missed F'ryan, but the happy memories seemed easier to access. At first, it felt strange to remember him while in the company of the roguish nobleman; she had felt… almost like she was replacing F'ryan with Xandis. But eventually, she decided she needed to move on. Although she had once thought she would, she had come to realize she couldn't spend the rest of her life grieving.

She had related the story of her relationship with the dead Green Rider on their fifth or sixth meeting. It had surprised her how… understanding… he had been, after it had sunk in. It had not, however, stunned her in quite the way the revelations of her original conference with King Zachary had. How in heavens she had missed it before, she could not imagine. When he said he understood... she had realized that he really did. Zachary and Karigan! It was a wild idea, but it explained so much; from Zachary's indifference when he had been friendly toward her before the engagement, to Karigan's sudden hostility. And of course, all the strange undercurrents between the two every time they met.

Estora could only imagine how it must have hurt Karigan when the man she loved signed a contract to marry Estora. A singular and unique type of pain, she was sure. Love, particularly between different classes, could make things so difficult. She lightly gnawed on her bottom lip.

She bit down harder when she accidentally jabbed her finger with the needle. She sucked her finger. The discovery had only spurred her on to get out of this contract. It would not be easy for them to be together, but she didn't want to be the one standing in the way.

The plans were carefully laid, and there was every intention of carrying them out to the finish.

_&_

_If you noticed anything wrong, do tell me. _


	4. Failed Warding

_**The Messenger's War – Chapter Four**_

_&_

Karigan started awake from a deep sleep, disoriented, unaware of where she was and feeling oddly overheated, her skin sticky with sweat. She blinked and stared around the room. _Glaston,_ she thought thickly as she began to remember.

She was still in the rocking chair and her back was stiff and sore. Her mouth dry, she swallowed and shook her head sharply. "_Augh_," she murmured; not only her back—her neck was cramped.

Since the fire had burned down, a heavy chill had settled into the room, the only warmth radiating from the red-hot coals. Then why was she so hot?_ Oh…_her cheeks flamed as she recalled that last dream. Yes, that _would _explain it.

She rubbed the back of her neck and reached for her boots where she had left them, beside the chair. She pulled them on and pushed herself up; she couldn't hear the wind anymore and wanted to see what it looked like outside.

Stepping over to her saddlebags on the bunk, she opened them and found some dried meat, hard tac and a flask of water.

_What a waste of a bed, _she thought wryly with a yawn and another rub to her neck. She warmed the food items in the embers till a haze rose from them when she took them out. She bit into the hard tac biscuit. It was bland and a bit chewy, of course, but a lot better than it would have been cold.

After she ate she went over to the door and cracked it open. Some snow spilled onto the floor. The wind had abated to a slight breeze and the snow fall had stopped, the sky a grayish blue. In fact there was even a little sunshine. She was glad to see that.

The branches of the trees, bare deciduous and verdant evergreen alike, were piled with snow. There was quite a layer on the ground as well, rising and falling in blue-white drifts. She didn't think Condor could traverse that without expending a lot of energy, but they would do it at a walk and she would let him have frequent rests.

Speaking of Condor, she had better go check on him. There were snowshoes above the fireplace, just as there was in most waystations. She would have been better off last night if she had had those. She took them down and fastened them on over her boots. After a moment's debate she buckled on her swordbelt too. With the warding there shouldn't be any need of her saber, but for some reason it made her a little more comfortable.

She put on her longcoat, climbed up into the snow and closed the door behind her.

.

Condor neighed loudly at her as she approached, his breath a hot vapor shooting from his nostrils. She smiled at him. "Morning, fella'. How're you feeling?" In answer, he shoved his muzzle into her chest causing her to stagger back and nearly trip over her snowshoes. "That good, huh?" she said once she'd caught herself on the door frame, not sure whether she wanted to laugh or thump him on the nose.

His extremities were cold to the touch but his fuzzy ears were tipped forward perkily and his eyes were bright. The blanket she'd put over him lay crumpled on the ground.

"Oaf," she said, both annoyed and amused. She took off the snowshoes and then picked up the big square of wool and shook off the majority of the mixture of dirt and dried horse manure that covered it. She folded it up and tossed it into the cabinet.

Karigan fed him and checked his feet, and then with a pat to his rump she turned to go back outside. She had to get her saddlebags and satchel so that she could saddle Condor and leave.

She squinted at the door of the cabin. A creeping feeling of foreboding sent chills up her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. The waystation's door was open. She clearly remembered closing it when she left, and when she saw fresh tracks of snowshoes that didn't belong to her leading up to it, her hand closed around the hilt of her saber.

_It could be another Rider—Garth could be coming back from the wall, couldn't he? He's been gone for months…_ she thought, but she didn't believe it herself. With bated breath, she sidled up to the doorway as quietly as she could and peered inside. Anger and astonishment welled up inside her. A tattered, grubby, hard-looking bearded man with rags wrapped around his blackened hands and a plain, battered, cruciform-hilt sword at his waist was rifling through her saddlebags. He muttered quietly to himself about 'poor pickin's'.

"Hey!" she yelled, enraged.

Startled, the man—who looked like a brigand—grabbed his sword and jerked his head up to stare at her with muddy brown-green eyes. He pulled his lips back to show his teeth—blackened like his hands—in a crooked grin. When he spoke his tone was contemptuous. "'Lo Greenie. Don't ya' King's folk carry any _fine_ things?"

She pulled her sword free of its scabbard with the hiss of metal against leather. There was a black band around the blade—Drent had been working on her for months. Torture would have been an unfortunatly apt description for the training sessions, but she had worked through her time as a Swordmaster Initiate to earn the title of Swordmaster. Although Drent still didn't seem to be nearly as convinced as Fastion and Donal, who she'd been training with, that she was good enough for it. Though he was obviously convinced enough to give it to her.

She struggled to suppress her temper. Facing him confidently, she said, "This is a Green Rider Waystation. _Get out!_"

The man's grin faltered when he saw the silk band on her saber, but he stood up straight and held his own sword up in a guard position. It was single edged and she noticed that there were many notches along that edge. "Swordmaster?" he said in a harder tone, shaking dirty, graying brown hair out of his face. He spat on the floor. "Greenies ain't Swordmasters." His words were bold, but he watched her warily.

She stared and arched a brow at him. He stepped sideways from the bunk and she followed the movement with the tip of her blade. The brigand was nervous, nearly squirming internally on her black-banded saber tip but he steadied his nerves with a slow exhalation of breath.

They stood still, silently assessing one another. The brigand shifted his stance slightly, which was warning enough that he was going to make a move.

He stepped toward her in a near-run, but when he got within five paces of her she moved faster. She sidestepped and caught his sword on the curved edge of hers. He swung around to the side and retracted his sword before she could knock it away and follow the pattern by coming down and clipping his thigh.

She thrust at his stomach; he barely parried it then slashed at her neck. But in doing so he left his midsection vulnerable—he had extended his arm fully. It was a small mistake but it was enough. She dodged the blow without difficulty and sliced him deftly across the ribs. His sword swung down wildly. Karigan caught it again before it could bite into her shoulder.

The blades slid apart with a soft scrape as the brigand tripped backwards over the clumsy snowshoes, cursing and clutching at his side. Blood oozed from the wound, soaking the rags around his hands. He still managed to hold his sword en guard. "Gonna' kill me, Greenie?" he said in a breathy voice. There was half smothered fear in it.

A single drop of blood fell from her blade tip.

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rising and a triumphant look suddenly entered the brigand's eyes. _Wha…?_ She thought and darted a look behind her. Two men who were equally as ragged as the first stood in the doorway with their weapons—an axe and another sword—drawn. _His friends, _she thought, a crease forming on her brow. _Must've heard the fight…_ she looked back at the first man in time to raise her saber and halt a chop at her head.

The brigand inched around toward his companions.

She turned her back to the wall so she could watch all three, her sword at guard. Her mind was racing. How the five hells had these men gotten in here in the first place? The warding should have kept them out! The warding… that had to be it. Somehow the spell had died. Why though—and how? The dying wards around the cairn in that clearing had been set so much longer ago than these. Her eyes flickered between the first man, and the other two. It didn't really matter now though. She had to get out of this to deliver the book.

Her free hand tightened into a fist and she glanced briefly to the saddlebags and message satchel.

They probably just wanted to get away, but they might be interested in exacting some sort of revenge for the first man's injury. It seemed to her that if they only wanted to get away they would have already run.

She would be more than a match for two of them, maybe even all three, but given the fact that she was still wearing snowshoes and might trip over them that could be pushing it a little. And she'd never fought anyone with an axe before. She was in a good position if she wanted to fight them, with her back against the wall so no one could get behind her.

However she didn't think she wanted to fight if it wasn't absolutely necessary. If she should happen to be wounded it might delay her even more—not to mention that she didn't care to be injured in any case. There had to be a better way… yes, there was. Of course it was risky too, but there was a better chance.

Her breath quickened slightly and she held very still for a long moment, watching for an opportunity.

"What 'appened, Galan?" asked one of the newcomers in a rough tenor, brandishing his axe at Karigan.

"Greenie came back when I was goin' through her saddlebags," the first started, breathing heavily and flicking his gaze to her. "She—" he broke off with a grating cry of pain as Karigan jumped forward and hit him full-force in the stomach with the hilt of her saber. The sickening, meaty crack of flesh-padded bone being shattered could be heard throughout the room. The very next moment she touched her brooch.

Gray flooded her vision and she saw stunned expressions cross the faces of the second and third man. The first was on the floor. She dived for the bunk, grabbed the saddlebags and satchel with her free hand and slung them over her shoulder. She ran for the door.

Wide eyed and hearing her footsteps pounding toward him, the second swordsman cleaved downward. She just barely evaded his blade—on a later examination, she would find the leather of her saddlebags marred.

She brushed between them. The axe man managed to grab handfuls of her coat but she gave him a hard shove, slapping him with the flat of her saber in the process. He let her go with a yelp. She leaped out into the snow and dashed for the stable at full tilt. A couple times she nearly tripped but she caught herself and kept going.

She burst into the stable still faded out, startling Condor into shying. She dropped the things on the ground, paused to sheath her saber and grabbed up the saddle and blanket. She threw them over his back, pulled them straight and cinched up the girth. He stood in place but jerked his head up and down as she did so. Thrusting her thumb into the corner of his mouth to get him to open it for the bit, she pulled the bridle over his head and put his ears though.

She fastened the buckles with desperate speed, hearing one of the brigands crashing through the snow.

"Let's get—" she swallowed, breathing hard. "Let's get the hell out of here."

The gelding pinned his ears back and snorted in agreement. Kicking her snowshoes off, throwing the bags over the cantle of the saddle and putting on the message satchel, she mounted. They tore out the door. Karigan narrowly avoided knocking her head on the top of the door frame and they clipped so close to the brigand that they knocked him over.

He must have seen—what would he have thought her to be? She would have been nothing but a shadow of a mounted figure that barreled past him.

Condor adopted a powerful leaping gait, bounding through the snow. His hooves sunk deep, than he surged ahead. They plowed through drifts and ran as fast as they dared in some of the shallow areas, kicking up a plume of white.

.

When they reached the Glaston Rock, Karigan glanced over her shoulder and threw off the fading like a cloak. She slowly exhaled relieved that no one had pursued even though she hadn't really thought they would in the first place. Her head was throbbing faster than her heart and Condor was blowing hard from his efforts, but at least they were out safe.

She brought him down to a walk so he could catch his breath. The snow layer was thinner on the lee side of the boulder and on the road proper, so he didn't sink so much at the slower gait.

If Garth was still at the wall by the time she got there and meaning to soon leave, (Gods, she hoped that was what happened) she would have to tell him about the failed warding. He would report it to Captain Mapstone and the King along with anything else that had gone wrong.

She shook her head. "What a mess," she said to thin air.

Condor bent his head around to peer at her with a wide, white-rimmed brown eye. The expression clearly showed his opinion—he seemed to think that that was a vast understatement. He straightened his neck and snorted in apparent disgust, prompting her to a slight chuckle.

"I know."

_&_

Galan groaned and opened his eyes. Blackness tugged at the edges of his vision making it seem like he was looking down a tunnel. At the end of the tunnel he saw his brother Vern crouching by him with his axe lying forgotten on the floor.

He was sure that the Greenie had broken one of his ribs and by the horrific, tearing pain in his gut and the fact that he could barely breathe, she might have done a lot more damage than that. Still, the feelings were distant… subtly ebbing and increasing as if his body couldn't decide which way to go—toward death or toward consciousness.

"How're ya', Gal?" Vern asked. His rough voice echoed down the tunnel.

"Fine, Vern," the injured brigand grated, then hacked. He couldn't see the blood when it was expelled from his mouth but he could see Vern blink, almost wincing as tiny crimson droplets spattered across his face. Vern didn't move, just stared, but Galan felt warm liquid dribble from the corner of his mouth. The metallic taste of blood was a familiar one.

He suspected strongly that he might be dying. Who'd have thought it'd be a damned Greenie that would be the end of him? _Tryin' ta' rob a Rider waystation wasn't… was bloody thick. Not even… good pickin's…._ The jagged ends of the rib had pierced his lung and been driven into his gut.

The pain was slowly abating, sensation decreasing, till he felt he was standing outside of himself. He couldn't breathe at all. He was vaguely aware of his brother shaking him by the shoulders, slapping his cheek.

Gradually the tunnel closed in… the world drained away to blackness.

He was struck to the ground by an unseen force, to his hands and knees. The only thing he could feel was fear.

_&_


	5. Twisted Darkness

_**The Messenger's War – Chapter Five**_

_Oops, so I realized that seven or eight months doesn't work... it wouldn't be winter anymore, or even spring. Lets go with... two and a half, and it's a long winter._

_&_

Galan covered his face with filmy hands, "_Leave me alone!" _he cried, but the strange force wrapped around him like a gust of wind, tugged at him. He wanted to lay down in the darkness, to rest, no more….

_Come…_ whispered a voice in his ear. It was hollow, echoing, as if the sounds barely pierced the layers of the world, but insistent. _Come,_ it said again, and the force grabbed at him, clawing and snatching at insubstantial flesh.

He could do nothing but give a barely-human scream that fell upon deaf ears, could offer no resistance as it pulled him up.

The forest was black; an eerie world. He stared around at it and saw nothing beyond twisted, stunted trees and dark mist, black lightning twisting and crackling in the distance. His own body was wrapped in mist almost as black as the world around him, usually formless, sometimes shifting to show vague forms beneath it—his rag-bound hand, his sword.

There was something before him… something darker even than the landscape. A figure vaguely resembling a woman, made of crawling insects and rotting flesh, strands of the black lightning writhing around the edges. Terror greater than anything he had felt before seeped through him as the dark form beckoned with a hand around which energy crackled.

_Come. _

And he fell into shades of gray.

Galan was left still for only a moment. This was the world again; it must be… but it was the world painted in smoky obscurity. He was dragged along the ground, objects blurring around him… he was pulled through obstacles rather than around them. He groped at the dirt and the leaves, at anything, but his hands slid through as though he tried to grasp smoke.

Again, he screamed.

_&_

_Looks like a good enough place to camp…. _The roadside here looked fairly free of debris but for a few broken branches, and the dense tree cover that hung over the place seemed to have shielded it from some of the snow.

Karigan dismounted with a tired sigh and let the reins slide through her hand. Condor groaned, rubbing the side of his face against his knee. They had ridden hard and fast over the last day and half a night, barely slowing the pace other than to let him let him cool down a bit and catch his breath, and once for her to eat a skeletal meal.

She slapped his neck and looked upwards, her breath floating away in clouds and the bitter air stinging her cheeks. Through the limbs of the trees, the moon was a fine sliver of a crescent at its apex in a night sky dusted with stars gleaming from behind a thin veil of clouds. _Pretty night._

She stared back up the road; it seemed a silvery ribbon in the frail light of the stars, marked by Condor's tracks until it disappeared 'round a bend. And up that road lay Glaston and its waystation. How bizarre. It could have been an isolated incident, but then again, it could have not. Privately, she believed that it was not. She pressed her lips together and set her attention on clearing the place and carefully setting up a small fire. There was little in the way of dry wood around, but she carried a little bundle of kindling in her saddlebags.

These things done, she went over to exchange Condor's bridle for his halter.

As she unfastened his throatlatch, she heard a soft sound, almost like a voice shaping the word 'come'. Leaving the leather strap dangling, she looked around and behind her. Nothing to be seen, and Condor didn't so much as flick an ear.

So why did she feel almost as if she were being watched, but not? The forest that had previously seemed all but harmless was now suspicious in her eyes. A scream rang out, and she put her hand on her sword hilt.

Again, her horse did not tense or look afraid—in fact, he cocked a back hoof in a drowsy attitude, peering at her in puzzlement though a half-open eye.

_Come…_ she drew her saber, and took a cautious step toward the tree-line.

"Hello?" she called out. No answer. She bit the inside of her bottom lip.

Somehow, she didn't feel that the order was meant for her, though she was apparently the only one who heard it.

An isolated blast of wind colder by far than the air _whooshed _from the forest fringe, tossing debris high into the air as it went toward her, around her legs, flaring out the hem of her greatcoat.

_Oh hells! _She shielded her face from it—it smelled of death—as it whipped around her and then was quickly gone.

She glanced back, hearing Condor's snort and shrill whinny. The gelding half-reared, ears pinned back as the wind that had passed her stirred his mane and tail to wildfire. She went to grab the reins. Just as her fingers closed around the worn leather, she was stopped by the same voice.

_Galadheon?_ Gooseflesh prickled across her flesh. She froze mid-movement and looked over her shoulder to see a figure of black near the tree line. It was a figure of dark things, she saw more in her mind than with her eyes. A figure of crawling creatures, of rats and roaches and serpents, of tainted wild magic. It was a figure of evil, and one of great danger. She wanted to back away, to run, but could not. Her breathing and heartbeat quickened, mind groping for the reason for the slight familiarity about it. She felt that it was hanging just out of reach. Before she could fully grasp the memory, the murky thing was gone.

It was barely a second before her attention snapped back to her horse. "Whoa," she said, unwilling to stand there gawking at the woodland fringe while he panicked, even though the deathly fear she'd felt had not gone. He jerked back against her, nearly pulling the rein from her hand, nostrils flared and eyes rolling to show the whites. "Easy, Condor." She tightened her hold and put her free hand up, palm flat, a hairsbreadth in front of his muzzle, trying to calm him.

He swung his haunches toward the road and tried to back up. "Condor!" she admonished. She had made a quick decision that she would _not_ stay the night here, but that didn't mean she was going to let him run wild.

One brown eye met hers, flickered with intelligence and a bit of shame, but still was fearful. He cast guarded gazes behind her, remained tense and ready to flee, but stood still. She nodded to him, quickly and slightly. "I know," she whispered to him sharply.

All thoughts of camping for the night driven from her mind, she kicked snow over the tiny fire—which had somehow escaped being snuffed out by the wind—hurriedly and a little ruefully, knowing she'd wasted her spare dry kindling—she would have to collect more where there was dry wood to be had, and swung up onto Condor. Even in this situation, it occured to her, a little distractedly, to think, _Well, the fire wouldn't have lasted long anyway with so little fuel._

She realized then that the throatlatch was still loose. She cursed and pulled his head around, leaning over and reaching to fasten it with one hand. He backed and sidestepped as she fumbled with the buckle, her gauntlets making the process clumsy.

Finally, she was able to let him go. He cantered at a slight nudge from her, straining against the bit to gallop even then. And after a second's debate, she let him, though to spare energy she wouldn't let him go full out for long--however she may feel about the road behind them.

She glanced over her shoulder as her abandoned campsite disappeared around the bend, still feeling a prickling at the thought of that figure in the shadows. No, the failure of the wards at Glaston was not an isolated problem—she could say that now without any degree of doubt.

_It was no wraith, though it had a little of the look of one. What it was…_ She thought on the dark figure. Something she remembered only vaguely, something from her escapade in the Tombs, returned to her. _'A necromancer walks the lands…' _The Second Empire leader called Grandmother was the one who came to mind first. _Fergal had said that he'd seen 'all the worst things' around Grandmother. And yarn tricks, Beryl talked about yarn tricks—she said that the old woman did terrible things with yarn. Seeing her tied up with blue yarn, screaming as I pulled on it, I can believe it. When they were interrogated, some of Immerez's men spoke of what Grandmother did to traitors. A crown of fire, the collecting of blood. _She drew her eyebrows together, leaning down a bit lower over Condor's neck. _Necromancy—more to help Mornhavon along, I'm sure. They never found her, no one knows where she went. Perhaps it was closer to home than anyone thought._

The idea made her fear for the safety of those left in Sacor City unawares. Her hands itched to rein Condor around, go to warn the King. But all she could do was worry, and have done with this as quickly as she could.

Strange, strange things were happening now, and she was yet only a mere three days out of the capitol. More than likely, the situation would get worse the closer she got to the breach. Another good reason among many to get a move on and not to stop except in fairly secure places.

Who knew how bad things could get before the problem was resolved—if it was resolved. Not a pleasant thought, and one she stubbornly tried to push to the back of her mind.

_&_

Laren set down her quill, folded the spectacles she now had to use on occasion, dropped them into one of the drawers in her desk, and stood, reveling in the fluidity of motion that she was able to achieve. Her joints were still a little creaky, and painful if she moved the wrong way, but seemed to have improved dramatically almost overnight. She had had an uninterrupted night's sleep—her first in a long time, and she felt more alive than she had in months.

Some of her personal disturbances suddenly seemed minor, no longer consuming her. What had been happening with her brooch, she did not know, but new scar tissue was already tugging at the edges of the ugly burn on her chest. Perhaps it had been nothing more than a freak occurrence, perhaps not. It still scared her, but now it was a fear that no longer seemed to take up the forefront of her mind.

She felt that she had been able to straighten her priorities, her disturbing realizations after speaking with Zachary pushed back and tucked away where she would not soon think of them again. She would not give in, but she knew that whatever Zachary had in mind for her, it would prevent her from taking further actions.

It would be vital for her to end this, and quickly, before he did whatever it was that he planned to do with her. She drew her mouth into a tight line. Now that he knew what she had done, she knew that there was nothing but, perhaps, time that might repair their severed relationship.

_Perhaps_, she thought as she opened her office door and stepped out into the corridor, _Estora might be more receptive. But... really, if she was the one who went to Zachary, it's doubtful. I wonder, why _did_ she suddenly decide that she wanted out?_

She shook her head as she walked toward the east wing. _Odd. I hope she hasn't gone and fallen in love again. That would be the last thing we need. It is not a good idea for a Queen to have a lover._ Laren's mood darkened, a wry twist to the corner of her mouth. _It would be bloody difficult to tell whose child an heir actually was._

She nearly sighed, returning to her earlier train of thought._ If she was not… I might have to take drastic measures. _She contemplated an extremely risky course of action that she was all-too-aware would be suicide in her relationship with Zachary… and would certainly weigh heavily on her conscience for the rest of her life, even if it were successful. And success would be far from assured if she chose it._ I would hate to involve Lord Coutre—indeed, it would undoubtedly worsen the situation in many ways, but if he could be calmed enough to deal with this quietly, things might work out for the better. Who knows…. _Bile threatened to rise into her throat, and though she tried, she couldn't quite manage to convince herself that it was anything other than revulsion.

She forced it down and took a breath, barely noticing the slight twinge of pain from her burn. _I'm sure there is another way to go about it without bringing the Lord Governor into the mix; perhaps Estora can be convinced… or the other Lord Governors might just say no. As good as Zachary is, even that's a chance--despite the Lords' stubbornness and arrogance. _

She stared at the floor through narrowed eyes as a memory played across her mind, old anger rising despite the years. Lords could be arrogant indeed… particularly the lower Lords. Oh yes, the lower the Lord, the more presumptuous… she could think of much harsher words for it. Maybe not such a big chance… she reprimanded herself mentally; best not to even go there.

Laren looked up again, though she didn't need to just to know she'd arrived at Estora's ornate oaken door.

As she stepped up to knock, a Weapon whose gaze she had first felt burning into her a moment before moved to block her path. What little expression showed on his face was dark, his eyes suspicious, almost hateful. If she hadn't looked so closely, she would have missed it.

"Captain," he began in a rich, deep voice with hints of the same mistrust she saw in his eyes pressing in at the edges, almost hidden, "any Weapons who might see you have been told to tell you that you must attend King Zachary in his study—immediately. I cannot leave my post… I am sure you will follow the order?" This last came out as a dark question. Whether he had meant to say it that way or not, she couldn't ascertain.

_So the Weapons don't trust me anymore… _she thought in slight annoyance—but at heart, she was more disturbed than annoyed. More by the hint of hatred showing than the distrust. Karigan, she knew, was on a comfortable first-name basis with many of them; indeed, accepted as one of them. They would probably consider her actions a crime against Karigan as much as against the King._ It's not really any surprise that they would hear. They always do. _She squared her shoulders and tried to look him in the eye, but couldn't quite seem to meet the cold, dangerous gaze. "I will… Donal."

.

Laren tapped on the door of Zachary's study. The man within immediately barked, "Enter!"

Inside, he sat behind his desk stacked with paperwork in sheets and in scrolls, leaning back in his chair, his legs crossed. The silver fillet he rarely wore when he was in privacy glistened on his brow. His hand rested on the arm of the chair, a sealed missive held lightly between thumb and forefinger. His expression was dry, humorless, slightly hostile if not so dark as the Weapon Donal's. But then again, it may have simply been that he hid it more carefully. He stared at her where she stood in the doorway. "Please come in, Captain."

She stepped forward and shut the door behind her, and recognizing the need for formality, bowed. "Sire," she said stiffly, "you called me here?"

He uncrossed his legs and stood. He didn't mince words "Yes Captain. I need you to deliver this message to Lord Governor Wayman."

Her jaw tightened, and she didn't reply for a moment. _So this is it. Sending me on a long-distance errand._ "Wouldn't another Rider do? It may take months, and I need to be here when Karigan comes back."

The space between his brows narrowed just slightly, mouth drawn. "I will hear her report, and Chief Rider Brennyn is quite competent enough to take over Rider business until you return." She began to respond, but he stopped her with a look that brooked no argument. She had the sense to firmly shut her mouth. "You will take it and wait for a reply. The message is not particularly urgent, but it is of import. _Do not_ tamper with it."

She nearly winced at his emphasis on the last words, and realized that there would be no fighting him this time. "Yes, Sire." He held the message out to her, and she took it, somewhat resigned to the fact. For now.

"Dismissed, Captain. I expect you to leave before noon today."

"Yes, Sire." She said, tight lipped, bowed and turned to the door.

Before she could close the door behind her to leave, Zachary spoke again. His words compelled her to pause, glancing over her shoulder through the corner of her eye without turning her head more than half an inch. "Captain… you have badly betrayed my trust. If you complete this mission… we shall see. I might even be persuaded to trust you again, if you prove yourself worthy. But mark my words, there is only one more chance. Use your absence to think on what you've done, and the options open to you. There are not many, and I hope you will choose the right one this time."

When it became apparent that he was going to say no more, she shut the door and started purposefully down the hall, the icy gazes of the Weapons posted on either side of the door following her until she turned around a corner and out of their sight.

_&_


	6. Departure & Arrival

_**The Messenger's War – Chapter Six**_

_Ugh, two and a half months doesn't work either. I can't get this right, can I? Well, just forget about an exact timeline - it's been a few months. This is the longest chapter yet... I hope it isn't a bit hard to follow. I wrote it over a fair period of time and strung it all together._

_&_

Stewing in murky bad humor, Laren leaned forward and squeezed Bluebird's sides hard. He leapt into motion almost instantly, and she had to pull him back to prevent him from going across the castle grounds in a flying gallop that the mission did not warrant and would probably cause him to end up losing his footing. The gelding, irritated and confused at the contradictory signals, shook his head powerfully from side to side, the action heavy and jarring in her hands. Mentally, she swore a harsh oath as she steadied him to a jog-trot, his hooves clattering and nearly slipping on cobbles slicked by melting snow gone to a dirty grayish mush. She was not in the mood for all this.

_Perhaps, _she mused, _I should be happy that I can get out of the castle for once, regardless of the purpose._ But the thought was dour and tainted by more than a hint of sarcasm. True it may be that she'd been inside four walls for too long, but all that had already happened that day stole any possible joy or relief from the prospect of being back on the road.

Everything she tried to do seemed to go awry, whether it was finding provisions or saddling her horse. Today, she'd had her foot stomped by Bluebird, her sleeve singed and nearly set aflame in a mishap in the kitchens, and her knee bruised when she slipped on a patch of black ice.

And added to that, she couldn't even put the message satchel over her shoulder. She'd thought that the burn had been healing well, but it had become hot and tender again over the course of the long morning of preparations—swollen up and started oozing puss even through the thick bandage she'd bound all the way around her body. She had secured the satchel to the front of the saddle; if she tried to put it on normally, whichever way she did, it cut into the festering burn, made her want to cry out.

Laren rode out of the gates, the guards' stares of hostility and something like contempt grating on her further. She bridled a little. Of course, they liked her even less than they liked the other Riders. She lifted her chin and put her shoulders back confidently, sternly glowering over at a guard she recognized. It was ill advised, she thought, for an officer to slouch in the saddle and stare at the ground.

She wasn't quite sure yet of what she planned to do. Delivering the message was something she couldn't circumvent, as there was no way to conceal the fact that she had not from Zachary. It may be that she could regain some say in the resolution of events later on, but for now, she feared that it might be out of her hands. Perhaps, though, she might be able to delay trouble slightly—or at least, trouble from one Lord Governor. But what was the point of a delay so short?

The colors of Market Square as she rode on one of the streets that led to and beyond it was an eye-catching counterpoint to the heavy grays of much of the rest of the ice and snow-laden city. They still held the market each week—be the weather fair or foul, it mattered little, as long as it wasn't a blizzard or pouring-down rain.

Traffic was thick on this road; Bluebird nipped the haunches of a slow mule with bundles slung across her bony back. The creature jumped ahead and threw her head up indignantly, long ears pinned back. Her handler cursed at the mule and pulled down on the lead, than glared back at Laren and swore at her.

"Sorry," she said, returning the glare full-force, not really knowing or, at that moment, even caring whether or not the man heard her, and tapped Bluebird's side so he stepped away from the offending mule—and almost into a cart. They ended up charging forward a few yards before the aggravated gelding settled again, with no small amount of input from her.

She directed him down an alleyway. It might be a less direct route out of the city, but at least it got her out of this damned traffic.

&

Karigan knew she was within two days' ride of the Wall. She looked forward to a full night's sleep, rather than the short, light dozes she'd been relying on for the last couple of weeks—though a hot bath would probably be too much to hope for.

She rode up to the crest of a wooded hill at an easy canter; beyond the trees, she could just barely see the night-dark camp, merely a small, irregular, pale shape by the Wall, which towered up and out of sight. A mile or so beyond the camp and to the left hand side, the breach yawned open like a deep abyss, the world beyond it indistinguishable to her eyes.

She caught her breath, aghast; it seemed to have doubled in breadth. A moment later, they were riding downward again, and the camp dropped out of sight beyond the trees. She supposed that it was a good thing that she could already see at all, but….

_How—and when?_ The growth of the breach was such a shock that her brain almost failed to process the horror that sent a chill down her body. Her gut churned with dread that was too great to put in words, and numbed her limbs. Perhaps, though, that much at least was more the cold than anything else.

She gripped the reins. The faster they got there, the sooner she could get some answers. They might reach it by mid-morning the next day if they didn't stop for the night.

Fog swirled around Condor's legs as she urged him on. She was exhausted, almost past feeling; the horse's motion, the sights and sounds of the night, faded into the background. She coughed. There was a beauty about this place, and almost a sense of peace… almost, but it was also a bit unsettling.

An owl hooted somewhere close by—it was a big one, by the sound of it. The moon was now nearly full, and its light streamed down to tint the trees silvery, and filtered through to set the icicles hanging down from their limbs alight with pale blue fire. The thin layer of snow on the ground was dappled with shadows, constantly shifting as breezes lightly stirred the treetops. It was quite a change from the blizzard she'd set out in.

Her experiences by Glaston now seemed little more than an introduction—she had been, unfortunately, proven right when she thought that troublesome matters would get worse closer to the breach.

.

She had been stopped by passerby in a village of Penburn Province. They had wanted something reported to the King—and they had taken her to the place. A deep well that had long provided water for the village. A stern-faced old woman with a long salt-and-pepper braid down her back, one of those who had called out to her in the first place, had sent down a bucket on a long rope. When she brought it up again and set it on the stone rim of the well, Karigan had seen that it was filled, not with water, but a slightly sticky black-red substance that suspiciously resembled blood. The folk of the village confirmed her identification.

Perturbed, she'd assured them that she would tell King Zachary about it, and had gone on her way. Only the next day, she came across a little brook that was partially frozen, but what ran, ran red.

Shortly after she crossed the border into D'Yer, before her very eyes, what had been a stretch of clear road had become overgrown and flooded with liquid mud that belched foul fumes, so hot that she could see the shuddering and swirling of the air. Condor had stumbled to a halt, and they had stood in shock for a moment before she realized that she would have to hack a path through the dense, dead forest undergrowth to get around the newly formed swamp.

It had cost her hours on foot, with her horse picking through the scrub behind her, only for her to look back when she emerged, scraped, scratched, damp and cold, to see that the swamp had reverted to a road of shallow, normal mud. She'd left Condor standing while she went back and looked at it, made sure that she wasn't hallucinating. It looked perfectly ordinary… but there was no way that it could have been just her imagination to begin with.

.

With each one of these occurrences, she had grown more and more ill at ease. The sight of the yawning breach was a culmination of it all, and now she hadn't any doubt that who-or-whatever caused more of the Wall to collapse was at the bottom of, if not _everything_ else, than nearly so.

And then, of course, she'd had more human difficulties.

On a rainy afternoon, she had entered an old, abandoned-looking barn with the intention setting up camp inside until the rain let up, and had discovered, to her dismay, that it was not abandoned after all. They'd had to flee into the storm from the rakish group of men and women who inhabited it, and, even more so than the brigands she'd encountered at Glaston, had looked like they were just spoiling for a fight. And more trouble hadn't been on Karigan's agenda.

By the time a farmer offered to shelter them for the night—for a couple of silvers, naturally—they had been soaked through. His kindly wife had offered her some rations to refill her saddlebags, and then given her some warm broth to ward off a chill. She had thanked the woman, and she supposed that it may have helped, but she'd still ended up with an irritating dry cough and stuffy nose.

_&_

Condor's mane flew into her face as she bent over his sweat-lathered neck. He would have to be well walked out and rubbed down when they stopped to prevent him from turning up ill.

She heard a loud call from somewhere ahead, still identifiable though slightly warped and muffled by the dense fog as "Rider coming!" She could see the faint shapes of canvas tents and awnings set about, and she thought for a moment that she could see the sentry who had cried out, standing on a platform, but then a stray gust of wind caused the mists to shift and hide both him and the platform again. The sentry shouted again, amending, "It's a Greenie!"

They passed a few of the frail structures, and she pulled Condor up near where she guessed was the center of the encampment. She swung off, her legs feeling weak, and taking the message satchel off over her head and tucking it under her arm as she went. Her boots splashed into nearly ankle-deep mud. Karigan slapped the gelding's neck, watching a man's form solidify as he ran towards her out of the fog. A soldier—with three silver chevrons on his sleeve.

"What news, Greenie?" he asked her, sounding a bit breathless.

"Can you tell me where to find Lord Alton, Sergeant?" she asked briskly. "I have something for him that is of very great importance."

The non-commissioned officer glanced to one side a bit uncomfortably and gestured vaguely over his shoulder. "Lord Alton is down by the breach. The other Green Rider… Littlepage, 'twas—well, she's with him."

_Dale? Ah hells, she'll probably have heard about the Knighting. There won't be a moment's peace…._ Well, she would worry about that later."Thank you," she said, and replaced her message satchel over her shoulder. There was mud coating Condor's legs, his belly, the girth, the stirrups, her boots. His tail was caked with it—that would take heated water; there was no way to get that out with a brush without pulling out much of the hair. She murmured a curse as her foot slipped once on the mud in the stirrup before she could get back on him. Once she had gotten up, she gathered the reins and sent him off with a touch of her heels.

The soldier, startled slightly by her sudden departure, faded away to a shadow, and then to nothing behind her. She directed Condor, weaving between tents until they passed the outermost reaches of the encampment. The rough granite surface of the Wall was just visible though the fog a few dozen meters away, across the cleared-out area, and they went roughly along its course. Something tugged at her, just slightly, seemingly wanting to pull her by the brooch toward the Wall, but she resisted, instead keeping nearer the tree line on the other side of the clear. That feeling was a bit unnerving.

She caught a glimpse of threads of dark cracks running along the Wall, and deep rusty-colored stains, slithering down the surface in a manner as if it had once been a liquid, on it as they progressed. Like, she thought, old blood. Had she not been riding at a gallop, she'd have shuddered at the involuntary but apt comparison.

It was some short time later before she pulled her horse back to less-than-breakneck pace as the majority of the Wall's bulk dropped away, the gap only partially filled by a recently constructed, only half-way complete, stone wall, its mortar already infested with lichen. Two horse and four vaguely human shapes appeared, all six looking her direction, and a voice drifted to her ears, the words nearly unintelligible.

She brought him to a halt altogether, his hooves skidding a short ways in the slick mud, before them. Two Green Riders and two guards looked up at her, the Riders staring in surprise at seeing her and one of the guards asking what was going on.

"Karigan!" Alton and Dale said in near-unison as she dismounted, once again taking off her satchel.

She walked toward Alton with the satchel before her in her hand, a little guarded, not knowing how he would react to her this time or if it would be any different. She glanced at Dale with a smile—almost a warning look, and a nod of greeting. She was glad to see her standing up and in one piece again. But obviously the warning didn't get through to Dale… or, perhaps, it did, for she smiled oddly.

Karigan said to Alton, "I think this is something you've been waiting for."

"What?" he said, with no trace of his former hostility, than realization dawned. He mouthed the word _book? _She smiled slightly in answer, a little relieved that he didn't glare at her the way he had before but not entirely trusting of him just yet. Alton all but snatched the satchel from her hands and unbuckled the flap, than peered inside, a grin spreading across his face. "That's it!" he laughed in near-disbelief. "This is it," he said with more conviction, and looked up at Karigan, expression almost giddy. "Thank you."

"Right," she said, not feeling her exhaustion or the damp cold quite so much, but having been made a little uncomfortable by the odd look in his eyes. It was an improvement over the way he'd acted toward her the last time she saw him, she thought. It was not unfriendly, in fact, quite the opposite… but she couldn't identify it, and it sort of unnerved her all the same. "You're welcome."

He gave a curious soldier who'd been trying to look over his shoulder a hard look. The soldier, seemingly embarrassed with the tips of his ears reddening, took a quick step back. "Sorry, Mi'lord."

Alton turned back to her. He looked a little better than before, a little healthier and not so gaunt, and he looked to have actually shaved this morning. "I… I'm going back to camp… can I talk to you later, Karigan?"

"Uh, yes, I guess so." She had expected that he'd want to run off and study the book right off anyway.

He didn't wait any longer about taking Night Hawk's reins and climbing on with the satchel in his hand. The horse looked disappointed in being taken away, for Condor had made his way over there and the two had apparently been getting reacquainted, nose-to-nose with ears pricked and necks arched, snuffling, but he gave no more objection than an irritated snort. Condor watched him go with ears drooping, but soon turned his attention to Plover.

Once Alton and Night Hawk had disappeared in the general direction of the camp, and the soldiers had wandered back to whatever they'd been doing, Dale picked up Plover's reins and put them over the mare's head. "So that's the famous book?" Dale said, almost to herself. "I hope it's something good, if you and Second Empire were running all over the country after it. Well, Sir Karigan, you should go back to the camp and get some rest. You look like death warmed over." She softened the blunt words with a concerned smile.

Karigan gave her a scalding look when she used the 'Sir'—which Dale, not in the least bit chastened, only smiled wider at. But, collecting Condor, she had to agree that she was probably right. "Yeah… Alton did say that he wanted to talk to me."

Dale rolled her eyes. "His 'later' will prob'ly turn out to be next week, if he locks himself in with that thing—as you know he will. We may have to drag him out for meals." At this, Karigan snorted. "How's business in Sacor City doing?"

She mounted Condor and glanced about uneasily. "Fine, I guess. Nothing much going on to speak of, even the new Rider wing is just about cleaned out and put together, but there are still a couple rooms left to have the rest of the mouse droppings swept out…" she trailed off, staring back at the breach as the screech of some wild thing cut the dense air, than looked over at Dale with a renewed sense of urgency. "What in the five hells happened here anyway? There were strange things going on with magic everywhere I rode."

She paused in the middle of fixing a stirrup. "Strange things? What sort of…? Oh, here? One morning the ground started to shake, and more of the Wall just… collapsed. According to Merdigen, the Guardians were really upset. They said, 'She comes'. We found some horses and a ball of yarn by the breach. What do you mean—?"

Karigan cut her off, a knot of dread, and of suspicions confirmed, twisting in gut. "Yarn?" she repeated, making sure she hadn't misunderstood.

Dale gave her a confused look. "Yeah. Now what do you mean by strange things?"

"Grandmother."

"What? Who's grandmother?"

"The Second Empire leader," Karigan said impatiently. "A necromancer. She kept Beryl prisoner—tied her up with a mess of snarled blue yarn that had some sort of a spell attached. She was the one who set up the whole scheme to kidnap Lady Estora. The Weapons never caught up with her, or those she took with her. She must have gone… to Blackveil." She swallowed. That was _one_ of the worst places she could think of for Grandmother to end up. In the midst of all that wild magic, such a great resource for one such as her. And who knew what else might be in there.

Dale didn't appear to be unaffected by her words, as well she shouldn't. But after a moment of silence, she still pressed her earlier question, obviously a bit impatient herself though her voice was deadly serious. "And what exactly happened to you on your way here?"

Karigan side-glanced at the breach again, a prickling going up her spine. "I'll tell you in a minute." She grabbed her canteen from behind the saddle and took a drink whilst Dale mounted. She put it back, and when the breach had disappeared behind them, she went on to tell in an undertone of the failed wardings at Glaston and the resulting confrontation, the disappearing swamp, and the Well of Blood. All the while, Dale listened in disturbed silence. By the time she'd finished, the camp was visible.

"_Gods, _it sounds like last summer. But… the wardings at Glaston? I've never heard of a warding just… going. You'd better get the warning back to the others in Sacor City—I'd hate to have that happen to me."

"I know. If whatever it is is messing with the wardings when no such thing happened in summer, it may be right to assume the magic may be more powerful. And possibly of a more malignant nature, but I don't know." A thought crossed her mind. "Hey, is Garth still here?"

"What? No, he left the day after he got here. …He wasn't in Sacor City when you left there?" The Riders stared at one another, and Dale ventured, "It isn't that long a trip. You don't think… something's happened to him?"

Karigan's brow furrowed in concern for their large friend. She felt like she'd been punched in the chest. "I hope not… maybe he got delayed by something?" she said hopefully.

Dale looked away, seeming not to want to even speculate.

_&_

_That's it for... this week. As always, let me know if you see something wrong._


	7. Falling

_**The Messenger's War – Chapter Seven**_

_Very long Author's Note:  
How long has it been? Months? I have little in the way of an excuse, actually. I need to re-read all the books—otherwise, with my NCIS obsession, you'll see Captain Mapstone or Fastion or somebody else going around glaring at people more than usual, building boats in the basement and slapping Yates on the back of the head. _

_Or maybe a mummified Major Everson shows up, stabbed in the gut with a screwdriver and shoved in the chimney of the Light Horse barracks—this with the added bonus of someone threatening bodily harm to someone else with a paperclip. But wouldn't everyone like to see that ostentatious fellow mummified? *blinks, suddenly realizing what she just typed* Strange, strange train of thought. _

_&_

_Somewhere in time's own space,  
__There must be some sweet pastured place  
__Where creeks sing on and tall trees grow,  
__Some paradise where horses go,  
__For by the love that guides my pen,  
__I know great horses live again.  
_—_Stanley Harrison_

_Lola—'04 – 1/1/09, for the champion that could have been._

_Big fun. Busy holidays, horse show, than losing a young horse in a freak accident at the stable on New Year's Day—got tangled up in her fence, panicked, her haunches gave out, and eventually either she broke her neck or crushed her windpipe. They had to cut her out of the fence._

_That mare was in the stall right next to my gelding—which can be unnerving. He was upset for a few days, just standing there staring at where she died when we left him alone. But I don't think he was entirely heartbroken—it's not as if he went off his feed or anything. *sighs* Life goes on._

_-_

_To try to make up for the time I took to make an update, this chapter is _very _long. The end of this chapter gets a little darker than it's been up until this point. And, maybe a bit disgusting as well. Walking corpse—what can you do._

* * *

_&_

It was quite late by the time Karigan finished grooming Condor.

Though she had felt a slight change in the atmosphere some time before, it was not until she walked out of the horses' shelter and into the icy evening that she noticed that the fog had all but lifted away. She shifted her cumbersome armful of tack as she went. There was no place to put it nearby the horses, so she assumed that it had to go in her tent. Her saddlebags had to go there anyway, containing as they did her only changes of clothing.

Dale had said that she would find her a tent and cot while she worked on her horse with brush, curry, comb and bucket of water. She came back when Karigan was about half way through Condor's mud-caked tail to let her know where it was and that it was set up.

She followed the directions Dale had given her; she passed what she knew to be Alton's tent on the way and saw a light burning inside. He might stay in there for days studying the manuscript if he was allowed to. And she didn't think that anyone would dare to try to take him away from it other then her or Dale.

She could only hope that if what was on those pages didn't fix the problem it would at least help smooth it over and give them some more time to prepare. Buteven as she thought that, the memory of the images she had seen inside the original book assailed her. She pushed them back, but the uncertainty nagging at her gut remained. The magic that had allowed the Wall to be built in the first place hadn't looked like something they should try to recreate. _Especially if so much blood must be shed to do it._

As she swept aside the canvas flap of the tent assigned to her, she also tried to put the uncertainty at the back of her mind. She fought a yawn as she put the tack down by the foot of the cot. At least she could try to be a little optimistic—what was in the book might very well be exactly what they needed. _There is every reason to think so, less reason to think not._

She had hooked the metal bucket she'd used earlier over her arm so that she might use it for her boots. Once she'd set that down she rubbed a hand across her eyes before jamming it into her longcoat pocket. She'd had to take her gauntlets off to wash Condor's tail, and so they were dirty and painfully cold.

Exhausted as she was, the cot looked extremely inviting. But hunger and the realization that she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten kept her from falling onto it without so much as taking off her muddy boots. It was probably about time for dinner in the mess tent she'd seen near the camp's center.

She slipped back out of her tent.

The cloudy sky was now nearer to full darkness, ranging from a dusky shade of pink where it disappeared beyond the Wall, to a pale circle in the clouds that gave away the position of the moon, to nearly black at the other horizon. The Wall cast its shade across the camp, darker and colder then anywhere outside that shadow. It was a surprise to see Alton standing outside of his tent, staring upwards.

"Alton?" he looked over at her, blinking in surprise.

"Ahm, hello Karigan," he said, cheeks tingeing faintly pink. She had to wonder why he was blushing…. "Where are you going?"

"Mess tent," she said, a little suspicious of him for some reason she couldn't quite pin down. "I thought you wouldn't want to leave the book until you'd scoured it from cover to cover." Despite the hint of humor in her words, the question of why he was outside now made it through.

"Mind if I come along?" he asked, either ignoring or not noticing the tone. He stepped up to walk beside her without waiting for an answer. "So, how is Condor doing?"

"He's fine," she answered a bit vaguely, wondering as her gut churned, in both hunger and in something that was not quite irritation… yet, if this would be going somewhere.

With a quick motion he turned up the collar of his longcoat, glancing away from her. She saw, though, a hint of an anticipatory expression on his face. "It's been awfully cold the last few weeks, hasn't it? Normally it begins to warm up by this month."

"Yeah," she agreed.

"But it isn't quite as cold as it was around Winter Solstice..." he said, trailing off as he perhaps decided it wasn't getting him anywhere. "How are everyone in Sacor City?"

His attempts at a trivial conversation were starting to chafe at her as she became more curious about what was in the book and why he didn't even seem to want to be in his tent studying it. And what was actually foremost in her mind, his months of strange behavior. "They're... alright, mostly." She glanced at the side of his head. He was still looking away.

"Captain Mapstone?"

She shrugged. "No different than ever, I guess. Overwhelmed."

"Ah-huh," he nodded, sounding like he barely even heard her. He picked up his pace so he walked a little ahead of her.

Karigan blew out a breath and took a couple long strides so she stood in front of him. "Alton," she said as he stopped a mere few inches in front of her. She gave him a hard look. Did he really think he could be an ass to her for months upon months at a time and then suddenly start chatting with her as if nothing had happened? "What is going on?" she snapped. He shifted his weight backwards. It was only then that she recognized how nervous he was. He tried to hide it, but his chosen topics and the care he took not to make eye-contact were a giveaway.

He looked pensive, than finally looked into her eyes. Briefly. She couldn't be completely sure, but what she thought she saw slipping through blew her away. She chose not to acknowledge it—it would make her too uncomfortable to do so. She wouldn't know what to do if she faced it. Pushing it back, she reminded herself that she was still irritated with him, and she still didn't know what was really going on.

"You don't know… I mean, didn't you get my letter?" he said, a little awkwardly. "I gave it to Garth to deliver…" he suddenly looked startled, something obviously occurring to him. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off before he could say whatever he'd meant to say.

"Garth never made it to Sacor City, Alton. We don't know what happened to him." Her tone was harsher than she might have intended. His face grew grayer. She might regret it later, but for now she was too upset with him to feel like apologizing.

He sighed, looking a bit depressed. When he spoke again, he'd bypassed the unpleasant issue, at least for the moment. "I'm sorry Karigan. I'm sorry for my behavior and I didn't mean… you didn't do anything wrong." At her frown of something like disbelief, he compressed his lips.

"It was these visions I had when I was trapped in Blackveil, visions of you, caring for me when I was fevered and ill. You—the vision of you, taught me the song that damaged the Wall further. I know that it was Mornhavon manipulating me, but I didn't understand that soon enough. Even when I knew it consciously, I still had nightmares, and when I woke from them, I doubted you."

Now it was she who looked aside, turning her eyes downward. She was relieved that she wasn't the problem—or at least he said she wasn't—and that he wasn't angry with her, but still….

Her long silence must have unnerved him. "I know," he said. "I know that it does not justify how I treated you, but I need you to understand—"

"I do understand," she said. "I know what it's like to have Mornhavon play with my mind." She could still remember the scenarios he'd fed her all too clearly.

"Then… can you forgive me?"

"Yes," she said, though she didn't feel it was that simple.

At her answer he looked as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders—she had carefully kept her doubt out of her voice. She did think that she could forgive him. _Even if not right away_. But she wasn't sure that he had forgiven _her_. His explanation had sounded like he was still trying to convince himself that what he'd seen wasn't real. _That it really wasn't me_.

She stepped aside, pasting a small smile onto her face. _At least now I know_.

He fell into stride with her, but ended up a half-stride behind. She had a sensation of his eyes on her; there was something about it she couldn't place that wasn't quite right. Something other than what she might've seen in him.

_&_

Condor's nostrils flared as darkness fell. He had been lying curled on his side after his Rider left him, 'til he woke with crawling unease filling his mind, leaving no room for anything else; then he had leaped upright.

Now he looked around with large eyes, backing up until he hit his tether, than surging forward again. The other horses didn't seem overly bothered by the oppressive sense that covered the encampment like a blanket—except for the two other messenger horses.

Like him, Plover and Night Hawk were on their toes. The mare sidestepped till her red-brown rump grazed Condor's, straining 'till he heard the soft creak of her leather halter to turn her head as far as she could toward something in the camp. He flicked a half-hearted kick at her for running into him, but what she'd seen soon caught his full attention.

A shadow moved across the camp, stopping here and there every so often. For a moment it loomed over a tent in which a light still burned, before continuing on with menacing purpose.

_&_

Karigan woke briefly in the night to an overwhelming sense of being watched. She felt a presence looming above her—a malevolent one. She tried to shake off sleep, her hand groping for the hilt of the saber she'd dropped at the side of her cot, whether or not it would actually help her.

The presence pressed down on her, filling her senses. She felt a pricking of something like claws in a half-moon against her cheek. _Sleep…_ a voice rasped in her ear, shadows darkening around her as it sent her spiraling out of consciousness.

---

She buckled on her swordbelt, than turned up the collar on her longcoat. Her boots and her tack were clean, she was wearing a fresh uniform, and she had used a horse brush to swipe mud off the bottom half of her longcoat.

She lightly fingered her slightly swollen cheek, wincing slightly; she couldn't remember how she'd hurt herself, or on what. Something was disturbing about it.

She didn't have anything to look at it with, but she could feel the four little indentations that punctuated the swelling. Her fingers rasped over some slight crusting around them.

There was a hint of an unfamiliar smell lingering, almost emanating from the canvas walls of her small tent, vaguely reminiscent of decay. Darkness streaked at the side of her vision, shadows drawing her in. A far away dirge sung in her ears, a song of death and defeat…. She started with a slight gasp, trying to shake off the eerie feeling.

Karigan ducked out of her tent the slightest bit more quickly than she'd intended to, pulling on her gauntlets as she went.

.

She went and had breakfast in the near-empty mess tent before she went over to check on Condor. He ignored her, head buried in a bucket in which some considerate person had dumped a scoop of grain on top of half a flake of grass hay.

She walked over to him and slapped the side of his neck. He straightened one rear hoof, shifted his weight and cocked the other. She smiled crookedly and walked around him, trailing her hand against his chestnut hide. When she reached his left side she groaned to herself. Evidently he had laid down last night. She picked at some of the crusted mud and greenish manure on his belly, scratching her fingers across his ribs.

His skin quivered. He looked back at her irately as he swung his haunches away from her.

"I don't care," she told him. He snorted. She rolled her eyes.

She left him to get her gear from her tent so she could groom him and take him out for exercise. When she got back he was looking at her expectantly, chewing a mouthful of feed with green hay poking out of the corners of his mouth.

She stepped over to him and set her gear down on the ground, dug out her curry, brush and hoof pick, and began grooming him. The soiled part of his coat gradually returned to its copper color under her ministrations.

His coat clean again and his hooves scraped out, she picked up pieces of tack, brushed them off and fastened them onto him. Condor chomped the bit as she buckled the throatlatch and led him out to mount. She didn't work him hard; he needed a respite after their hard run—but nor did he need to stand around idly in the horses' shelter all day long.

She rode him at a lazy trot down to the breach, the thought in mind that she would get a better look at it in daylight and then go back to the camp to speak to Alton. He had avoided most of her questions about the book and the Wall at dinner last night, and while she couldn't think of a reason why, she thought she could get an answer from him today.

It was a surprise to see Alton again, once again doing what she hadn't expected him to be doing. It did occur to her that Night Hawk had been missing earlier. He sat astride his horse, trying to urge the reluctant gelding to move closer to the breach and the recent stonework that filled it in only part way. The new segment was only half complete, built to the full width and length but only reaching varying heights, never quite being raised to the full ten feet. Lichen already flecked the granite.

Condor's whinny caught Night Hawk's attention. The black horse nickered back, which in turn caused Alton to turn in the saddle and look. He put his reins in one hand and waved at her. Night Hawk stopped dead, and Condor, too, balked when he got closer to the breach.

Her eyes wandered to the darkness beyond the breach, picking out forms of dead black trees through the coils of brownish mist. The memory of that strange night on the road after she'd left Glaston, when that malevolent presence had caused her to leave her campsite, assailed her. She could almost smell that wafting odor of decay.

Condor shifted underneath her, snapping her out of the reverie. She urged him a few steps forward and in Alton's direction; he went, but would go no further than Night Hawk had.

Alton didn't turn before he said, allowing his horse to back a step but stopping him with his leg before he could get further, "It didn't bother him before—or at least, not so much."

"Perhaps they see something we don't," Karigan responded, the hair on the nape of her neck rising. For a moment she almost wished she were back in Sacor City mending furniture with Yates for the room of a new Rider, threatening him for every other innuendo he made, as she had been doing the day and evening before she left Sacor City. It could not have been more than two or three hours between the time she finally went to bed and the time Captain Mapstone shook her awake. She blew out a short breath, dismissing it. There were more important things to worry about anyway.

"Maybe…." Alton said. "What's different today?"

She suppressed a shudder at a vague memory of a shadow deeper than the rest, a feeling of something evil watching her. Then the thought of her experiences on the run entered her mind again. "A great deal, I fear," she said softly. Alton finally looked at her, puzzlement registering in his expression. "I didn't tell you what happened on the run. I know, I probably ought to have. I got caught in a blizzard, and I found my way to Glaston Waystation. The wards failed, Alton. Three brigands attacked me there; I injured at least one of them and got away. But they shouldn't have been able to get in at all.

"That night I was going to camp on the side of the road, but there was something there. Something…." She trailed off, not knowing how to describe it. "Something vile. It looked like something Fergal Duff described to me in Mirwellton—'made of all the worst kinds of things'. That wasn't even the end of it," she added as an afterthought. She hadn't been sure she needed to tell him the rest, or even that she should.

"I was stopped in this little village—turns out they were pulling blood up from the well instead of water." Alton's expression barely changed, and she wondered if what she'd said had somehow bounced off him without leaving an impression. But when she thought about it, she knew that was not so. Certainly not, by the look in his eye when he glanced across at her.

Finally, she saw him swallow. "You think…"

"I don't know. Second Empire is more likely. One among them—Grandmother, I mean—is a necromancer. I think that they were here, and maybe still are."

"I don't know why they'd leave, once they were in reach of Blackveil. All that wild magic…" he said, trailing off with a slight shake of his head. Karigan peered once more into the darkness. She had meant to ask him about the book, but felt that this was a bad place to do so.

Some small thing sitting atop the stonework caught her eye. It seemed out of place, and though she continued to look at it, she couldn't quite make out what it was. Her horse would not move any closer, so she dismounted to take a look. She told herself she was a fool to do so, with her horse's leery attitude and all there was to support it, but the feeling of the twist in her gut did not bid her to stay away; it made her feel like she needed to know.

"Karigan?"

"Just looking at something," she said as she approached. Something told her she shouldn't tell him this.

_Out of place, to be sure…._ A rose bloom was set there, the petals bloody scarlet.

_Yes, _said a voice within her mind. She did not know who spoke to her that way, though she could guess. At some level did she not even want to know—the idea scared her, made her feel helpless.

_Yes to what? _She wondered, distracted from the rose. Yes, it was out of place, or…. Something occurred to her even as the words went through her mind. She hoped that she was wrong in thinking what she was—that it was meant for her. She swallowed, the corner of her mouth twisting downward. Stepping back, slowly though she wanted to leap, she turned away, trying to look as casual as she could and keep from looking over her shoulder.

She went over to Condor and picked up the rein, feeling as though her all nerves were stretched taut.

Alton spoke up suddenly. His out-of-the-blue question was all the more unexpected, the subtle tinge of jealousy in his tone startling her. "Who is Fergal Duff?"

She stared back up at him. He was looking toward her, eyes slightly narrowed. She felt a bush of irritation and, overlaying her worries for just a moment, a strange impulse to laugh. Stranger yet for what she'd seen and the subject they'd been discussing a few moments ago. She swallowed her smirk before it could show. "Fergal Duff is a new Rider who was Called in autumn. Captain Mapstone assigned him to go with me on a run."

Alton was opening his mouth to speak when a clamor of howls rent the air, much too close for comfort. Condor shied sideways away from her, jerking the rein from her hand, and Night Hawk rose on his hind legs. Alton dropped the reins and clung to his mane, trying to keep him from falling backwards on top of him. Karigan looked back toward the breach to see if they were about to be attacked.

A heavy stillness settled in just below her heart. Black mist rolled overtop the partially rebuilt section, cascading over almost like a liquid and creeping along the ground as it spread outwards. She realized those howls had not been approaching, but receding—and quickly at that. They were running away, back into the forest.

She backed up, feeling like time was slowing down. She wanted to run but her body wouldn't comply. A cry lodged in her throat, her brooch pulsing icy cold against her chest.

The black mist rolled towards her; she touched her brooch, the world changing around her from shades of gray to white to night-dark obscurity in a matter of an instant as the ground fell out from under her.

---

Her eyes opened to empty darkness, her body registering that she was flat on her back. She had a brief moment of panic in which she couldn't remember what happened and feared—out of the fact that she saw nothing—that she _couldn't_ see. That fear was allayed as the memory of dismounting to look at a rose that was out of place and seemed to have been set there for her benefit, and then being overtaken by the wave of blackness, returned.

That re-introduced a whole other set.

There was an ache in her right side, the pain sharper when she tried to take a breath. The air was dense and smelled like smoke and rot.

She braced her hands against the ground to push herself up. The surface beneath her hands felt like sharp gravel, the edges of the stones pressing into the palms of her hands through her gauntlets, but there was nothing to be seen. This place, whatever it was—she was not even altogether sure it was really a place at all, set her nerves on edge. _It's better not to be a sitting target, _she thought as she glanced around herself, standing up the rest of the way. She had to suppress a gasp at the pain in her side.

She pressed a hand to it, feeling a dampness through her coat. _Just wonderful._

Her hand found its way to the hilt of her saber, ignoring the twinge she experienced in doing so. She could hear the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears; otherwise the silence was oppressive.

Karigan took one cautious step forward, testing the waters. And then another, the stone shards crunching beneath her feet. At her third step she heard the low rattle of gravel tumbling over a precipice, and felt empty air beneath the ball of her foot; she rocked back on her heel and moved, very quickly, back to where she'd started.

Her eyes widened as what she stood on rocked beneath her feet at her sudden movement. She waited with bated breath for it to still, wondering what the hells she had gotten herself into this time.

When it did, she stepped in another direction. More cautious this time, she crouched down and reached out before her. Her hand fell upon nothing; she drew it back, feeling the ground shift again, and let out a long breath as she stood. _I gather it's not a great idea to walk anyplace…_ she looked up, placing her hand back on her saber hilt and feeling exceptionally vulnerable.

A distant, dark glow lit in the direction she had first tried to go. She felt herself freeze in place, ice sweeping up her spine. Her grip tightened around the hilt of her saber.

It approached her, slowly but steadily. As it neared, it illuminated the edge of the stone, showing that it did drop away into nothing.

She could see it solidifying into a human-like shape, but she couldn't make out the details. Revulsion filled her; she wanted to run, but she knew if she tried she would fall into space—she did not want to find out what would happen then. She jerked her saber from its scabbard, holding it out before her toward the menacing form.

_Put down the blade, Galadheon. _The voice was slurred, rasping, and a different one than she'd heard before, but familiarity made her blood go completely cold.

"_You!_" She said in shock.

_Oh yes,_ it—he said, circling around her. She warily followed the movement with her blade tip, turning 'round. _Put the sword down. It will do you no good against me, Galadheon._

He closed in.

"So you say," she said. She raised her saber, staring at him. Another few inches closer. She swung it at him, feeling it cleave into soft flesh, but pain stabbed in her side. Still he only came closer, and grabbed the blade.

A pair of dark eyes stared down at her, gleaming. They were bloodshot, wild but at the same time calculating. She choked on the stench of decay, feeling a pang of nausea in her stomach as the details became clear.

Rotting flesh clung to the skull. Over its forehead and around much of the right side of the face, it was intact enough that, though distorted, the olive color of the skin was still retained. But the left cheek and jaw were laid to bare bone. The nose was gone, so too were the lips. They left behind a skeletal grin.

Bloody yellowish mucus was congealed around the place the nose had been and smeared across the mutilated cheeks. Black hair remained, thick but dull, covering the crown of the head and tumbling over his temple.

Though there was not the flesh to show it, only the bared teeth that were slicked with stagnant dark blood, she knew he was smiling at her horror. Smiling, and silently, terribly, laughing.

Her sword blow had cut into him, but she saw that it did not matter. _A walking corpse...._

He reached out to her with an arm covered by a black silk sleeve, slashed to show scarlet beneath. Strips of sickly green-to-black flesh hung from the wrist; the clawed hand was nearly naked bones, with only the pale tendons still attached to the backs of the fingers and his palm.

There was a faint crackling of wild magic around his hands, but it seemed weak. She shifted backward away from the hand, trying to tear the blade from his grasp. He didn't give—even if he had, the pain in her side tore at her and made her lose her own grip.

The saber clamored against the ground, falling so it was almost over the edge. She didn't think about it—she couldn't think about it. She swallowed against the pain, stumbling a step back, but trying to keep moving sideways and away. He turned a stride with her, finally catching her by the hand and dragging her close.

She bared and clenched her teeth, struggling against him.

Her hand clasped around the wrist, twisting it hard until he grabbed her around the back of the head and pulled it around to face his mutilated visage. He was really looking much the worse for wear. She could see maggots squirming under the perforated greenish skin of his throat. And where had the claws come from?

She thrust a leg between his and caught her ankle high up around his rather spongy calf, trying to throw him off balance. The leg gave way, and he stumbled briefly.

She tried to twist away—but cried out as he grabbed her right shoulder. The claws stabbed through her uniform and into her flesh, sending needles of white-hot pain through the joint and effectively stopping her struggles.

A wet, warm patch was growing over her shoulder. He tightened his grip, a surge of energy making her jolt against him. White spots danced before her eyes as she felt herself jerked into another place.

_&_

_Condor lay down on grassy ground with his long legs and neck out straight. His belly was sliced open from chest to sheath, blood and innards spilling out. Frothy, bright scarlet blood remained on his muzzle, around the nostrils and mouth. The ground was torn up, as if he had thrashed around as he died._

_Her view shifted._

_Alton was sprawled out, with deep lacerations crisscrossing his body. By all the blood dousing the ground, and the nature of the wounds, he looked to have bled to death. An elegant dirk, inlayed with gold at the hilt, was thrust into the ground beside him, its double-edged blade shining through a coating of red._

_&_

She stood staring back at him, something in her mind crying out.

_I once offered you a place at my side, as my Lieutenant—we would conquer the world together… beginning with the heathen Sacor Clans._ Blood bubbled from between his teeth as he hissed the words into her ear.

"_Never_," she whispered adamantly, mind still reeling.

_I could show you more of the things that can be done if you will not. _She surged back against him once more, only to be pulled away again.

_&_

_The spots of light before her eyes filtered away to show the flame of a torch, borne high in the black-gauntleted hand of a Weapon. _

_Fastion. _

_His face was grimmer than she'd ever seen it, his dress stiffly formal beyond the usual uniform of the Black Shields. Donal walked beside him, a black banner raised in his hands. More Weapons followed them, carrying an ornate bier between them with a dark-shrouded form resting upon its black velvet upper surface. _

_Ahead here were tall gates of iron, surmounted by the still and silent figure of Westrion, his wings spread wide. They opened into the Tombs in silence._

_It was to the Halls of the Kings and Queens that they went, and from there to the avenues of Hillander. They halted before the sarcophagus with King Zachary's likeness carved upon the lid, setting their burden down on the ground. _

_The lid was hoisted off with great care, lengths of rope tied to key points, and the Weapons stood by as Caretakers peeled back the shroud. _

_He was laid there in full regalia, all save his crown, skin chalky white. Where a series of jagged cuts tore down one side of his face and neck and disappeared under his collar, the flesh had been carefully stitched back together with a strand of silk, some of it painted over with flesh tones. But even the delicate work of the death surgeons could not hide the damage—only soften its effect._

_&_

She was brought back again, into a body that was cold and still with shock.

"I will not," she grated. "I will _never_._"_

_You would risk your King?_ He mocked her. _Your love?_

Her eyes wide, jaw clenched, she inched her left hand toward the hilt of her longknife. The moment her hand closed around it, she jerked it upwards and slashed at his face. The claws jerked out of her shoulder as he dodged away with greater speed than she might have anticipated, considering his appearance.

Before she knew quite what had happened, she was plummeting headlong into the abyss.

_&_

_Cliffhanger! Almost literally. And look who's back... that can't be good.... _

_It sure feels strange to actually be finished with this chapter. That was an obscenely/absurdly long amount of time I spent._


	8. Blast

_**The Messenger's War – Chapter Eight**_

_&_

_*whacks self in black of head* Ooff._

_I know this took a lot of time for what's here. This chapter is short. Nearly everything I had plotted out up until now is going out the window because I feel like I either have to wrap this up fairly quickly or it won't get finished at all. It won't be just two or three chapters, but It probably won't be ten or fifteen._

_&_

Zachary looked unblinkingly at the young messenger in Mirwellian scarlet, his chin resting on his knuckles and one eyebrow raised. He was startled by what he had just heard. More then startled.

.

'_Many water sources in and around Mirwellton have gone bad, and in some other parts of the province as well, Sire.'_

'_Gone bad?'_

'_Well, Sire… they've turned to blood. Or there's a lot of blood in them.'_

.

The young woman's uncomfortable declaration hadn't told him much, disturbing though it may be. He dug through his mind for an ordinary explanation to give this messenger. Before he could give it, the woman shifted slightly under his steady glare.

"It is true, Your Majesty," she said. Respectfully, but sounding like she didn't think he believed her.

"Is it possible that some of these reports were exaggerated? There may very well be a mundane explanation." He was fairly sure that she spoke truth if the incidents were half as widespread as she said, but he wouldn't yet dismiss the possibility of another way to explain it.

She swallowed slightly. "Some, maybe, but not all, Sire. It includes one of the little fish ponds inside Mirwellton Keep—I saw it myself."

He nodded slowly—he believed her. He saw honesty in her eyes and while she was young, she was also a soldier, her stance straight and square and her expression set. She probably knew what blood looked like well enough. "Anything else, Private Wald? Any other… oddities to report?"

Her eyes dropped to the right, then back up to his face. "Farmers have been turning up bones of men when they plow. It happens once in a while in the areas of battlefields and sometimes when they try farming forgotten graveyards, but it's more often the last couple or three weeks. Also in places that have been farmed many times before. An' not full bodies so much as parts. A skull or a rib or a leg bone.

"Also, there things growing that ain't supposed to this time of year, like flowers poking up through the snow. They're not growing like normal either. Malformed, Sire, and the wrong color—they're black."

Zachary nodded and compressed his lips slightly. "Thank you, Private. Dismissed." She dipped a deep bow and took her leave of his private audience chamber.

Once the door shut behind her he jumped up from his chair, brow furrowed, and started pacing. Bloody ponds, bones and black flowers added up to an equation that told him that someone or something was meddling with the forces behind the D'Yer Wall. _In the summer it was the stirrings of Mornhavon that caused the magic to escape. Here, I must consider the possibility that Kari may not have bought us as much time as we thought she might have. Not enough time. _His hand tightened into a fist.

And so the trouble became what to do about it. _I would like to think Second Empire was the sole source of the problem—which would be a bad thing in and of itself, but a more appealing idea than the other option. Karigan knows more about this matter than most others, certainly more than I. _

He lingered in that spot as a vague half-a-plan—he could hardly do more without knowing more then he did—formed in his mind. He went back over and sat behind his desk, smoothing out a sheet of parchment. He plucked his quill from the silver inkwell, tapped it lightly against the edge and started writing.

He had scrawled just a few words before he heard a knock on the door; he looked up in silence, waited in the faint hope that whoever it was would go away, then reluctantly called out permission when they knocked again. The door immediately swung open to admit Lord Coutre.

"Good afternoon, Lord Governor. Is there something I may do for you?" He asked, watching his approach. There was a slight rigidness in the old Lord's step that sent an alarm ringing in his head. Coutre made a stiff bow, a subtle glint of anger in his eye. Zachary nodded slightly in acknowledgement, giving no indication that he'd noticed it.

"Sire," Coutre said. He inhaled, a tendon on the side of his neck standing out sharply. "Do you dare…."

"What do I dare, Lord Coutre?" He asked, his tone a reminder of where they stood that he thought might be needed. And one which Coutre stubbornly ignored.

"My daughter has been seen entering your chambers," he said, the implication clear.

Zachary raised an eyebrow, giving him an inscrutable look. The irony of the old Lord's conclusion did not escape him. It seemed fairly ridiculous to him but he knew it wasn't a hard sum to come up with. And if he didn't like that idea, he thought, he would like the truth of why Estora had been meeting with him even less. He set the quill back into the inkwell, schooling his expression to be completely blank in expectation of a fight.

Coutre's face was faintly crimson-spotted, but his expression remained blanker than Zachary might have expected of him under the circumstances. "Do you deny that she has been into your private chambers?" The thought of manipulating this situation so it could be used as an excuse to break the contract occurred to him, but he dismissed it knowing that it could send things in a bad direction and do much harm to Estora.

These thoughts having gone through his mind in the space of a brief moment, he debated whether to confirm or deny what he said. Telling a partial truth might be giving Coutre the incentive to find out more, yet he thought lying would be less convincing. He watched the Lord fume for a moment before saying firmly, "Lady Estora did meet me there, once—but I do not say that she met me for the reasons you seem to believe."

"If not, what were they?"

The tone of the question was flat, brazen and mostly lacking in respect. Once again he lifted his eyebrow, irritated.

That was a more blatant mistake than he'd have thought he would see the Lord make, conservative as he was. And if he thought he would tell him anything, having been asked in that tone… he felt like shaking his head, by now almost—_almost,_ amused as well. "In do time, Lord Governor Coutre," he said, emphasizing the 'Lord Governor' just slightly.

_I don't particularly care to have this old fox being too familiar in manner… even if he thinks I will soon be his son-in-law. That would certainly prove to be a mistake. _

Coutre lifted his chin, already aware of the fact that he'd overstepped his bounds but unwilling to back down. "I will _not_ have my heir so degraded as to have her virginity taken before she is married—even—"

"It would not be wise to complete that sentence, Lord Coutre. Tell me. What makes you presume that it is appropriate to shout at me?" He was past irritated now. The Lord shut his mouth, still with a slightly angry glint in his eye. Zachary could almost see the wheels turning. "Again, I have not laid a finger on Lady Estora. She has been aiding me in a small matter."

"_Sire,_" he said. "If it involves my daughter, I believe that I have a right—"

"Lord Coutre."

The Lord looked at him. "Sire?"

"Do not." He tilted his head, eyes narrowed, and Coutre finally nodded, looking appropriately chastised. "You are dismissed, Lord Governor."

He did leave, but Zachary knew that his guard was up. He thought that Estora would hold up under her father's fishing expeditions but he could never be certain if she might let some little thing slip.

The few times they'd met had been in his study other than the one evening that she had come looking for him to tell him that her father was looking to have the wedding date moved up from where it had been set at the Summer Solstice.

Thusly, this had been his second confrontation with Lord Coutre and he didn't think that this one had been as successful as the first. Before he had drawn the conversation elsewhere, dropping excuses here and there as he went. This time the Lord had his suspicions. It was not inconceivable that he might come to at least a part of the right conclusion before much more time had passed.

He brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen into his eyes and picked up his quill.

His mind having wandered far afield, he stared at the _Rider Sir G'ladheon, a report has reached me from Mirwell Province…_ that was written on the page for a few moments before he could collect his thoughts. He began writing again. He told her what the Mirwellian Private had said, asked her to speak to Merdigen in the Tower if she was able.

He wanted to write so much more to her but it couldn't be anything less than professional. But despite himself he signed it _Zachary_, minus the formality of a title.

Once it was dated and sealed he handed it off to a Green Foot, hoping against hope that it would reach her before she left the Wall. It wasn't a real plan, actually, just information gathering. He shook his head once as he paced back and forth past the window.

There was no way to handle the problem that he knew of, not really. Perhaps a thousand year old mage might.

He halted in front of the window and looked out. This added to his problems. Rumors had been passed around many classes of society, tales of the growing madness of the Lord Steward of Hillander, and Zachary knew the truth of them.

A few weeks ago he had received a strange, rambling, paranoid-sounding letter from his Steward. He had known that something was up then though he hadn't been sure what. He had replied dutifully and sent an extra note to an immediate subordinate, asking him to keep an eye on the Steward.

The next thing he heard from his home province was that the Steward had ordered the provincial militia to attack a returning party of their comrades. The order had been disputed and, according to the source he had, it had boiled down to a fierce verbal conflict between the Steward and the Captain who'd disobeyed him. The Captain had not backed down and had finally been put on house arrest.

He rubbed his temple and looked at the floor. High ranking clansmen were on their way to Sacor City, along with the Steward, to decide what to do with him. Or if anything needed to be done at all. There had been other things that had happened, he'd been told, though he couldn't see the man and judge him with his own eyes.

_I'll see for myself. _

Breaking the marriage contract had not been top priority in the last few days, regardless of how important it may be to him personally.

As he was about to head for the door a thunderous blast came from outside, followed by a man's shout. Smoke curled under the door. He could feel tremors ripple in the stone under his feet. A walk became a run as he tore open the door and ran out into the hallway, being stopped by the hands of the two Weapons stationed there before he could see what happened.

_&_


	9. Tragedies & Changes of Plan

_**The Messenger's War – Chapter Nine**_

_&_

_Kersey turned the medallion in her hand over and over as she walked. It was thick and heavy and made of gold—or brass, Kersey couldn't tell the difference but she liked to think it was gold—with curious runes running around the edge and a shard of translucent, shiny black stone set in the middle. There was what looked like a little tree etched onto it. _

_In her other hand she carried a note that she was supposed to give to one of the Weapons. It was from that Green Rider with the burned-wax face—Lieutenant Brenny, she thought it was, or maybe Brennyn._

_She polished the medallion on her sleeve with a besotted smile. Her mother—she didn't know her father—was a maid, and they would never be able to afford something like it on their own. It had a pin clasp on the back of it, but she didn't dare put it on her uniform. She wondered why that old man had given it to her—maybe he was a foreign noble in disguise, or a spy or something. _

_._

"_Hello, my girl," called a man's voice. It was gravely and a bit frail-sounding, and she looked over to see a little man in a patched, ragged shirt and trousers. He was little for a grown man anyway, but still bigger than her. _

_He had a strip of cloth wrapped around his head, like the turbans some men from the Under Kingdoms wore. But his wrinkled skin was fair and his eyes were blue. He seemed to be looking at her, so she stopped. She didn't feel very nervous about him, just curious. _

"_Hello, child," he said with a gap-toothed but still kindly smile, and waved at her. She noticed a very dark shape on his already dirty palm. Like an ink spot. Was he a scribe or a clerk? He didn't look like one._

_She smiled shyly. "Hi. What are you doing on the castle grounds?"_

"_Nothing very important. What about you?" _

"_No," she chirped, "I meant why did the guards let you in?" _

"_My niece works in the kitchens." The lie was smooth and rolled off his tongue easily; the girl thought it was truth._

"_Oh, well my mum cleans the lanterns."_

"_Oh," he said and began to open his mouth again. _

"_And I'm a Green Foot." She smiled proudly. Her eyes drifted to the gold medallion—or she supposed it was really a brooch—he had pinned to his shirt. "That's pretty," she observed. _

_He looked down at it in seeming surprise. He unclasped it and held it out to her. "You can have it if you would like."_

_Her jaw unhinged and her eyes grew large as she took it from him. She looked at it then at him. "You sure?" he nodded. "Thanks!" She exclaimed and tucked it into her pocket. _

_She was tapped on the shoulder and she looked up into the face of the Green Rider. Kersey gulped, suddenly ashamed and fearing she'd been caught taking something from a stranger. _

_Though Lieutenant Brennyn was very kind to everyone in the Green Foot, she was sort of frightening anyway because of the scars. Kersey had always said she wasn't afraid of 'Wax Face'. The Rider split her curly hair far to one side and didn't braid it so most of it would veil part of the burned side of her face, but it was still pretty obvious. _

_She looked at the old man with suspicion in her eyes before transferring a gentler gaze to Kersey. _

"_Hello Rider," she said softly._

_Mara smiled. "Would you take this to Weapon Fastion? He should be in the West Wing, at the door of the King's study." _

_She nodded hesitantly. Even the grown-ups were scared of the Weapons. The Lieutenant handed her a folded piece of paper with the Weapon's name printed on the front. When she looked back to the little man just before she dashed off, he was nowhere to be found. _

_._

_She stopped and looked at it. Maybe it wasn't such a good thing to have after all. Maybe, her imaginative mind theorized, it was some sort of symbol that he was trying to get rid of or he'd get found out. Maybe they'd kill her instead if they found her carrying it…. Now nearing the King's study she found herself wanting to drop it somewhere. But there were servants and Weapons everywhere and you could never see the Weapons. Surely someone would see her…._

_Kersey gulped, having made herself anxious. She closed her hand around it to hide it from prying eyes. But the little man hadn't looked like she'd imagined a spy would. She had thought, when rarely she'd thought of it, that a spy would be tall and elegant, not little and dressed like a beggar. Not that she knew, but it was probably okay._

_Reassured, she rolled it under the cuff of her sleeve just as she heard the door of the King's study shut with a bang. Lord Governor Coutre, who appeared to be in a fine bad temper, walked down the corridor. She bowed to him. _

_He didn't acknowledge her—she hadn't expected it and seeing his mood, she was glad he hadn't. But as he passed she felt a curious tingling sensation crawl up her arm from the hand that held the brooch. There was also a little humming sound. She looked down at the brooch and saw the stone glowing from within. A little squeak escaped her throat and she threw it on the ground. The glow brightened. Suddenly she felt the floor beneath her seem to quiver. _

_Lord Coutre stopped walking and stared around; his eyes settled on her. If she hadn't been so terrified herself, she would have been surprised to see they were fearful. In that moment there was a blast that threw her against the wall, and once her head crashed against it she knew nothing more. _

_&_

The air was smoky and Fastion's ears rang as he staggered upright. Seconds ago, the corridor had been filled with blazing light and his instinct had been to hit the floor—he had done so, apparently in the nick of time as a great shockwave had rolled over him and slammed into the wall. The concussion had rippled through his body from the floor. Now his head was spinning.

He looked around—Erin was crumpled on the ground and his Brothers and Sisters could be seen coming through the haze. His sharp eyes also picked out ordinary castle guards hanging about the fringes and reluctantly coming their way. Two figures lay prone on the floor where Lord Coutre and a Green Foot runner had been a moment ago.

"Fastion! What happened here?" Donal.

"I do not know. I will—" _Speak of the devil,_ he thought. The rest of his sentence would have been 'check on the King', but he was saved the trouble when the study door behind him opened to admit the King himself. Fastion grabbed his arm to prevent him from going any further. "Are you alright, Sire?"

"Yes. What happened, Fastion?" Zachary unknowingly echoed Donal's question.

Blood trickled from a cut through Fastion's eyebrow and stung his eye. He blinked his vision clear. "We will soon find out, Excellency, but you must not remain here in plain view." This looked to him very much like an attempt on the life of his Sovereign. A magical one.

Despite the Weapon attempting to usher him back into the study, the King held out stubbornly when he caught sight of the two people on the floor down the hall. "Is that Lord Coutre?"

Fastion looked to Ellen, who crouched over them prodding the smaller, green-clad figure's throat for a pulse. She gave him a minute affirmative gesture. He looked back to the King, "Yes, Sire."

"And the other—a Green Foot?" Fastion nodded. He could see pain in his King's eyes already. "Do they live?"

"I do not know, Sire. But I will tell you as soon as I find out how they fare. Now please Sire, go back inside."

The King acquiesced grudgingly and Fastion sent Weapons Leah and Wilson in with him. He looked down at Donal, who cradled Erin's head in his hands. "Is she alive?" he asked his fellow Weapon.

"Unconscious," was the abrupt answer. "I cannot tell how badly she's injured."

Fastion nodded. They would take her to the mending wing soon. He walked down the hall to stand next to Ellen, Weapon Allis taking his place at the door.

She straightened from her bent position. "They are alive, but barely. I told a guard to bring stretchers."

He didn't feel any need to acknowledge her words. Something on the floor caught his eye and he crouched to get it. The change in position made his vision revolve at first, but he recovered and picked up the folded piece of parchment. It was from Mara. As promised. He tucked it into his doublet—he would take care of it later.

Whilst he was down there he noticed something else. It was a gold medallion with an empty fixture in the center. Bits of black crystal that resembled obsidian lay scattered around it. The gold was ornate. He squinted at it—he could almost recognize some of the runes on it. Fastion stared for a second before one word jumped out at him, sending danger signals ringing off the hook.

_Imperial_.

It looked like that was the beginning of his explanation. And he was already sure that it wasn't going to be the explanation he would like.

_&_

Estora clenched her father's hand in hers, hot tears blurring her vision. Grief gripped her chest like a lead coil. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. They were supposed to have gone around him to seek approval from the other Lords. It was supposed to be a clean break, or at least that was what she thought.

She bit back a sob when she heard the mending wing door behind her creak as someone pushed it open. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. She told them as much.

The King stood stalk-still in the doorway, his brow creased and his lips tight from what he had learned. The blast had claimed three casualties—nine-year-old Kersey, Weapon Erin, and Lord-Governor Coutre.

Destarion said that Erin would live, having been a way back from where the explosion began, but it would be several weeks before she could go back on duty. Lord Coutre was fading fast from a blow to the head. All the plans were for naught, but moreover Estora's father was dying. Zachary had never wished him any physical ill will despite his many threats and manipulations.

As for the young Green Foot… she was already dead. It was for this child that he felt the most guilt; a young life snuffed out before it began. Nine years were precious few. She was still in the room she had been placed in and her mother was kneeling over the small body sobbing.

Her cries could be heard all the way down the hall.

Fastion had come into the study earlier and told him that in looked like an assassination attempt and that it might be in connection with the Second Empire. Yet more worrying news and two lives ended because someone wanted the King of Sacoridia dead.

Three steps to cross the room and he stood at Estora's shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss," he told her. It was inadequate, but he was. Estora nodded, biting down on her lips.

Coutre's skin looked as white as his beard, a black bruise spanned the side of his head and there were small cuts on his cheeks. He was barely breathing. When she finally looked up at him the noblewoman's eyes were red and puffy and her kohl had left tear tracks down her cheeks.

"Sire," she choked. It was amazing how much a single event could change things. Not amazing in a good way. She swallowed spasmodically. The only thing she could think of to say was "What now?"

He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "You are your father's heir. We will break the contract. You will be the new Lady-Governor of Coutre Province."

She closed her eyes and swallowed again. She sounded a little bitter but steadier than before. "Yes. There is nothing standing in the way now, is there?"

Zachary knew it wasn't a question that required an answer but answered anyway. "No. Unless you want there to be." He recognized that she needed some sort of support and was almost afraid she would say yes, but strongly suspected she wouldn't.

Estora gave a tiny, choking laugh. "No. I recognize half-heartedness when I hear it. Besides…" She broke off as the door opened behind them.

"Estora!" it wasn't a shout, but it was loud enough to be a jolt in the quiet mending wing. Zachary turned to look and saw his cousin coming into the little room.

"Amberhill?" he said in surprise. This was unexpected.

The other man locked eyes with Zachary, some surprise showing. He inclined his head in a rushed way that was just shy of disrespectful. "Your Highness," he said before stepping over to Estora.

The following conversation was brief and gentle, beginning with Amberhill's "Are you alright?" As an observer Zachary paid less attention to their words than how they said them. Estora's grieving eyes softened to a sad smile and Amberhill was unusually tender, and her use of his first name and the placement of his hand on her cheek were confirmation. So this was her secret new flame. He found himself rather taken off guard.

Estora suddenly realized that the King was still standing behind her and Xandis. She looked up and Xandis followed her line of sight. Zachary was standing there with a raised eyebrow and a mild, surprised expression.

Amberhill straightened, alarmed and kicking himself for just having given the game away. He wondered what his royal cousin would do. The answer came in the form of a simple action. The King squeezed Estora's shoulder, told her he would talk to her soon, and left.

_&_

_A belated hello to everyone out there. And yes, I do know I'm cheating. Poor, dumb kid. FYI, I did some editing on chapters 1, 2, 3, 4 and 8._


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